


The Shadows Feel Like Home

by burntcopper



Series: National Service [6]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Torchwood
Genre: AU, Confusing Jack Harkness, F/M, Inflicting Pevensies on People, M/M, Melody Malone - Freeform, Minotaurs, The Problem of Susan, fun with dr who references, rationing, spot the references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:22:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burntcopper/pseuds/burntcopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Pevensies trip, fall, and somehow end up in Torchwood. It's not Susan's fault she shot an alien that was trying to kill Jack Harkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Susan

**Author's Note:**

> Small note for those who've read the rest of National Service, especially Putting the Natives at Ease - I re-worked the dates a little so it begins in 1945, and thus everything in National Service is a bit earlier. A lot of the events take place concurrently with it. Oh, and Susan's place of work is now specified.
> 
> Now, see how many Dr Who bits you can spot. Special points to those who can spot the Hitchhiker's reference. *Extra* special reference to those who can spot the reference to 007.

Susan clutches her coat around her as she steps out of the door. December in Cardiff. It's bitterly cold, there's a mist rolling off the sea, and the chill's nipping at her ears and nose. At least she's got a decent coat and her gloves don't have any holes in them; Mother had insisted on keeping coupons back for coats for all of them, since you always appreciate a good coat when you need it. Her children could have told her that, having been in far colder climes than she would ever experience if she's lucky, but then they had fur on their side back then. Sadly fur's a little hard to get your hands on these days unless you're rich, and it would've been a bit difficult to persuade the Professor and his housekeeper that they'd like to take a fur coat each with them when they left his house, just in case they encountered below freezing temperatures and snow drifts. There's no snow here, at least not yet. Just rain and wind straight off the sea, smelling of the docks.

 The streets are dark, but at least there's street lights and the blackout's been over for several months, the faint glow of lamps through curtains almost cheery compared to a few months ago. It stopped raining about half an hour ago, the streets still slick with it. Susan takes in a deep breath of cold air, tucks her scarf in and fumbles for the keys so she can lock up the office. Last one in, finishing up work that had run over, specifically those bloody forms that they insisted had to be produced. She doubts anyone ever does anything with them but file them away, just another box to tick, but each one is at least twenty minutes' work with all its cross-referencing and they pile up. So that leaves her in a cold office on her own when she could be tucked up listening to the wireless with a mug of Bovril. Still, at least they trust her with the keys, which is more than you could say for the other girls, so she can actually get the work done and out of the way. Sensible Susan, with her knack for getting things done.

 She locks the door, adjusts her bag on her shoulder and sets off down the street in the direction of her digs. Some other night she might be inclined to go in search of some dancing and a drink, but for now that Bovril is sounding really tempting. Maybe even borrow Flora's record player and her collection of classical discs. Leave the dancing 'til Friday. it's a long step down from her former life, but it could be worse. Electricity has its upsides at the very least, and her digs weren't bombed out like some.

 She's less than halfway home when the sound of running feet behind her makes her pause and step closer to the wall, instinctively. Too many instincts, but these particular ones stand her in good stead most of the time. Three - no, two men. One being chased by the other one, breathing unsteadily, and... the breathing and gait are all wrong. Not human, the tread's too light. The other one is, and very fit at that, his gait regular and strong, like he's used to running across wet cobbles. The sound of them gets closer, into this street, and Susan relaxes her poise enough, just to give off the impression that she's nothing to be concerned about, no threat, and certainly not worth hiding behind or using as a bargaining tool. They clatter past her, the dim light giving her enough to see that the chasee has a fin on his head and wet-looking skin. Giving chase is a tall man in RAF gear, coat flapping out behind him. Another set of steps starts up, far behind. not as fit, then, but no way to tell whose ally he might be, since by the noise, he's a good hundred yards back.

 They don't even glance at her, let alone harass her, veering off into an alley ahead of her, so she keeps walking. She's not gone five yards when she hears the sound of a scuffle and an abrupt thump and crash, that of a body hitting several bins, and then the floor. Susan would deny quickening her pace, but there's not really much point. She defends her actions to herself later that either she wanted to get out of there quickly or make sure there wasn't anyone injured. The little voice that sounds horribly like her younger siblings - raises an eyebrow and tells her to keep telling herself that.

 In the alley, the man in the RAF uniform stiffens, clearly hit by something that's *not* a blow - some sort of projectile - and crumples on the floor at her feet, the gun that was in his hand dropping as his fingers spasm and landing in a puddle with a splash. Down but not out, and given the wisps of steam, still breathing. Crouched against the wall is a man ... with a fish head. well, that explains the fin. He spots her, and hisses. "What do you want, pet? Want some of this like your friend here? You don't look like the cavalry, now do you?" The fin on the back of his head flares, and Susan narrows her eyes. Clearly as high as a kite, but still a threat. The body at her feet is testament to that.

 She crouches down and picks up the gun, cocking it. "I'm afraid I'm not the cavalry. Sorry to disappoint you."

 "Well, then you're just unfortunate." He hisses, lunging at her, webbed fingers out and grasping. Susan squeezes the trigger, and watches as he's brought up short, collapsing to the floor with one less eye. She winces at her shoddy aim. One day she'll get around to properly practising with guns, she hasn't learnt to compensate for the recoil. Sadly she's never had the time to do more than pick up someone else's, let alone fire it. All she's been able to do is make judgements based on observation, as any marksman might of foreign weapons.

 The other man finally catches up with them, his footsteps getting nearer the alley, and the rest of the world, which narrowed for a moment, floods back in. Susan turns slightly to catch his body language. He's panting badly, definitely out of shape, skidding to a halt in the mouth of the alley, a mere couple of feet from Susan, holding on to the wall. He takes in the situation very quickly and straightens, brushing himself down. Well played, she'll give him that.

 "See you got it, then." He pauses, glancing at Susan. "Hello, miss, just pest control. Don't know where he got the mask, was making a dreadful nuisance of himself down the pub, so he was. All taken care of now."

 Susan raises an eyebrow very slightly. "Really." She puts the gun in her pocket, and bends down to roll the airman at her feet over, careful not to let her skirt touch the puddles, checking his pulse and breathing, both of which are steady, if not a little fast. There's a very faint tremor in his limbs, so... nerve toxin. Partial paralysis, but it should wear off soon. She prods at his face to check how much he's faking. No recoil, and very few are that good an actor. Susan grasps his chin, turning his face to the light if nothing else, he's got a film star's classic bone structure and jaw. Crisp should get the best reaction, and forestall any questions from his friend. "Some sort of nerve poison, since you're still awake. Blink twice for yes, you're not fooling anyone." The airman blinks, reflexively. "Good." Susan straightens, brushing the creases from her skirt and acknowledges his colleague, tilting her head slightly. "Do remember to clean up after yourselves, gentlemen. Good night." With that, she walks past him. 

 When she's a few yards out of the alley, she hears the less fit, not paralysed one ask "Friend of yours?" Susan smiles to herself. She really is looking forward to curling up with that Bovril.

 ----

 Two days later, Mrs Jones comes in looking disapproving. Jean leans over and whispers "I wonder what it is this time. Do you think someone moved her filing a fraction of an inch?"

 Mrs Jones casts a beady eye over the admin staff of Customs House, all dedicated to typing and filing forms and seeing to all the paperwork generated by Customs and Excise in Cardiff and the surrounding area. And gossip, of course. And tea. If you're Georgie and Annie, you also have a dedication to the film star of the week, and stacks of film magazines. Eventually she stops on Susan.

 Susan looks up and assumes a helpful expression. "Was there something, Mrs Jones?"

 "There are two men in the front office to see you. Apparently you were a witness to a robbery two nights ago and they want to know if you saw something." She purses her lips. "One of them's in an RAF uniform, so what business he's on I have no idea."

 "Perhaps they forgot to demob him." Marjorie says dryly. "As for daylight robbery, I thought that was our exclusive purview."

 "*Daylight* robbery, Marjorie." Bina says, checking her cuticles. "You know perfectly well that if it takes place at night, we're not necessarily involved up to our necks. Which generates even more paperwork."

 "Well, in that case I'll leave you to it." Susan says, getting up and straightening her skirt.

 In the front office, the two men standing around are definitely the men Susan saw two nights ago. The jawline on the airman is certainly distinctive. In the dim light coming through the windows, it turns her first assessment in that dark alley was correct. He's been blessed with classic film star looks, and he's got the look of one who knows it. The man accompanying him looks like an accountant shoved away from his desk, a stoop to his demeanour that looks as though he's about to try and hide behind a pillar and set of figures. Susan has nothing against accountants and those who earn their living by making sure books balance, they're exceedingly useful for ferreting out details. She just finds it odd to find one in law enforcement. As this one apparently is. Still, the fact that they gave a flimsy excuse to Mrs Jones is not exactly reassuring. Or perhaps is more reassuring that they took the effort to track someone down who'd witnessed something out of the ordinary; it indicates attention to detail and diligence.

 "Miss Susan Pevensie, I take it?" The airman smiles, hand thrust out in greeting. Very carefully calculated to be reassuring yet commanding, if she's not mistaken. And Susan is never mistaken. And he's American, which raises all kinds of questions. Specifically, why he's still here. "Group Captain Jack Harkness. we'd like to ask you some questions about the robbery you witnessed the other night."

 Susan smiles, slightly. Tentatively, you might even say. She shakes Captain Harkness's hand. Lots of gun calluses. More like a soldier's hand than an airman who spends his time flying planes, or office bound as he would be now the war's over. "I'd be happy to help. I'm not sure what I saw." She pauses, widening her eyes slightly. "I'm impressed you managed to track me down, though. It was rather dark."

 Captain Harkness. smiles again. Reassuring and friendly. "You made an impression, and not so many girls are as pretty as you."

 Behind them, Mrs. Jones sniffs. "I have work to be seeing to. Miss Pevensie, will you be all right here with the gentlemen?"

 "Quite all right, Mrs. Jones." Susan says, smiling bravely.

 Mrs Jones nods sharply, sniffs again and leaves. The second the door closes, captain Harkness tilts his head, expression changing to interested. Interested with an edge of calculation. Still friendly, but not so genial and meet the parents polite. "So what did you do with the gun, Miss Pevensie? I'm rather attached to that piece."

 Susan smiles back. Not so tentative now. "What makes you think I have it?"

 "Well, you were the last one holding it. And it's not turned up in any bins or at the police station. No-one's stupid enough to throw away a decent gun." Harkness. replies.

 "I might know where it is." Susan concedes, then tilts her chin slightly. "How long did it take to recover from the nerve toxin?"

 "An hour or so." Captain Harkness replies. "Why, were you concerned?"

 "Long-term paralysis is rather nasty, in my experience." Susan concedes. She changes her expression to bright but interested. "Dare I ask what the fellow you were chasing had done?"

 Captain Harkness smiles again, only this time with teeth. "Oh, disturbing the peace, that kind of thing. I'm sure there's some landlords who could tell you all about it. Dare I ask where you learnt to shoot like that? All the records we've dug up on you indicate absolutely no training; you were a typist during the war."

 Susan smiles again. "I didn't compensate for the recoil, so my shot was off. I'm out of practice."

 The accountant, he who is definitely not in the shape he needs to be if he's going to be chasing after beings spoiling for a fight, stares. "Your shot was off? Miss, you got him in the eye."

 "As I said." Susan replies, keeping her expression genial. "Off."

 "Can you describe what you saw?" The accountant type continues while Captain Harkness adjusts his watch, flipping back the cover.

 "Some sort of being, presumably amphibious by heritage, given the general appearance and webbed fingers. He felled Captain Harkness here and then I shot him. That was all." Susan says.

 "Not a man in a mask." Captain Harkness states.

 "Given the way it moved, no. I'm fairly certain even the most sophisticated mask could not operate like that. Or move his head fin." Susan points out mildly. "Why, do you require glasses?"

 "No, my vision is as perfect as my teeth. Which are pretty good if I say so myself." Captain Harkness says, flashing them. His teeth are so white and shiny that they probably required their own blackout drapes during the war. "It was dark, miss, how are you so sure?"

 "I have very good eyesight and night vision. probably better than you do, Captain Harkness." Susan replies.

 "Well, to make that shot you'd definitely have to." The accountant observes. "However, miss, we need you to come and answer some questions at the department and to take your statement."

 "Might I ask what department it is where one of your agents appears to be still enlisted in the RAF and you're chasing drunken people through the streets late at night?" Susan asks politely. "I'd have thought that was more the purview of the police."

 "We're a special task force." Captain Harkness says.

 "Special." Susan says, raising an eyebrow.

 "The normal police aren't quite equipped to deal with some situations, so a special task force was created." Harkness shrugs. "We're based down by the docks, and we've been known to work in some of the same areas as Customs and Excise. But we do need to take your statement."

 Susan folds her arms. "That's all very well, gentlemen, but you could be anyone. All I've seen is two men who failed to apprehend a man."

 The accountant and Harkness produce badges. "Sorry, miss, I should've thought." The accountant now identified as Davies says sheepishly.

 ---

 Davies and Captain Harkness escort Susan through the docks to a small office on the edge of the water. 

 "Gentlemen, this is not inspiring me with confidence, I have to say." Susan remarks, eyeing the shabby door with old advertisements plastered on it, nearly obscuring the metal name plate. She's seen shabbier in the name of secretive organisations - and just plain government organisations, at that, and she's certain her brother Edmund in his current career and prior role has definitely seen worse, but this is up there in the 'determined not to be noticed' stakes. 

 Harkness flashes one of his matinee idol grins. "Honey, just wait 'til you see what's inside." He turns the handle, pushing it open and a little bell tinkles. He holds it open for her, and Susan steps through cautiously, peering into the gloomy interior, Davies and Harkness following close behind. 

 Inside, it's a small reception, and someone steps through from the back. it's a young woman with an oil smear on one cheek and in overalls, hair up in a scarf. She looks as though she's stepped out of a garage, fresh from repairing an engine. The spanner and greasy cloth sticking out from a pocket really do complete the picture. "How can I help?" She pauses. "Oh, hello, Jack. Stephen. Go on through, there's nothing waiting to jump out at you."

 Harkness flashes another of his grins. "Thanks, Myra." He pauses, pulling out a bag of boiled sweets from an inside pocket. "Oh, I found these under my chair when I left earlier - are they yours?"

 Myra snatches them from him. "You bloody bastard, Harkness, I thought I'd mislaid them. Couldn't you just have left them on the table?"

 "If I'd left them on the table, they'd have found their way straight into Gibson's desk, and you know that just as well as I do." Harkness says, tucking his hands back in his own coat pockets.

 Myra wrinkles her nose. "Damn you for being right. Just go on through, will you?"

 Susan raises an eyebrow. "You're a little different from the usual receptionist one sees."

 The young woman shrugs. "The usual receptionist is off sick, so you're stuck with me." She reaches into a breast pocket and pulls out a nail file and leans against the desk, beginning work on her nails and giving every sign that she's ignoring them.

 Davies sighs in a slightly pained fashion and murmurs "I find myself constantly apologising for her. Are you sure we can't get a full-time receptionist?"

 Harkness grins. "Ask head office. I'm sure they'd be glad to go through the hiring procedures and paperwork for it."

 Davies just sighs again, crossing to the back of the office and opening the door there. He gestures for Susan to go through. "If you'd like to follow us, Miss Pevensie. we'll explain everything when we get into the main offices."

 The door leads to a modern-looking lift, which takes what seems quite a while to reach their destination. "Is this office at the bottom of the bay?" Susan enquires.

 "No, just a few floors down." Harkness says. The lift opens into a small area with a very heavily fortified door in front of them, and a pad with numbers on it to one side. Jack keys in a sequence, and the door swings open slowly. Susan steps through, and blinks slightly. She's in a very, very large room, with doors running off to other rooms. She can't see the roof, the ceiling's so high. It's draped in wires and cords running off to giant machines that hum and whir and tick, paper printing out of what looks like an industrial sized telegraph machine. "We have a slightly different set up to other investigative agencies, I'll admit."

 "So I see." Susan says dryly. She's faced down more impressive delegations than this room, and she's certainly not going to gape. No matter how amazing the machines are, and the fact that she's certainly never seen the like. It looks like something out of one of those pulp magazines, the ones illustrating Asimov.

 Davies gestures to a corner of the room that seems to have been directly transported from the Bakerloo line, if 'Torchwood' was ever a stop, according to the word picked out in tiling on the wall. "If you'd care to walk this way, Miss Pevensie, we can talk and perhaps get you a cup of tea?"

 Susan follows him up the couple of extra steps and looks around the rather dank ex-tube tunnel that this end of the complex appears to be. "Was there ever a train that came through here?" She asks.

 A middle-aged man who's been shuffling through a set of files on a desk replies without looking up. "Not that I've ever found to verify. I think the case was rather that plans were made, drawn up, and then when it came to constructing the base, no-one ever got around to removing that section and it got built. I find it rather reassuring to know that bureaucracy is as inefficient in secret bases as it is elsewhere. As it is, it's a boon as it's wipe-clean, unlike the rest of this place outside the medical station."

 Harkness makes an amused noise. "Powell, did you even look to see who we'd brought in?"

 "Aside from the multitude of cameras we have set up to monitor the entrances? Not really, no." Powell says. "Besides, I hardly think a question about a folly of construction is going to bring the place crashing down around our ears as part of a grand villain's master plan to flood Wales and bring back Owain Glyndwr. Considering the only difference is in the tiling and the rather large sign."

 Harkness shakes his head. "I think you read too many science fiction magazines. Grand villain's master plan? Really?"

 "Far more interesting than the reality. Or at least they have more style." Powell says, marking something off on the file. He still hasn't bothered to look up. "One day strange things will take place in far more attractive surroundings."

 "Where do you want, the Brecon Beacons? I think the sheep and ponies might end up nibbling whatever it is to death." Jack says, pulling off his coat and hat and putting them on a coat-rack in the corner by a shabby sofa that looks as though it's not only seen better days, it's seen better decades. The biscuit crumbs down its sides have probably bred and formed better biscuits they've been there so long.

 "Mystical and fantastical things should by all rights take place in caves. Picturesque caves." Powell says. "Or castles."

 "We see quite enough caves, as far as I'm concerned." Jack says. "It's not my fault you're the archivist and don't join us for those expeditions. Besides, I think the tellers of those tales forget the fact that most caves are extremely damp and cold, and the same goes for castles. Castles when they were up and running were ankle deep in rushes, were covered in tapestries in a desperate attempt to keep the heat in, incredibly smoky when there was a fire going in the grate and mostly stank of animals."

 Powell snorts. "How you're so sure about this is beyond me."

 "Lots and lots of research, Powell." Harkness replies.

 "He's right about the rushes and tapestries, I'll give him that." Susan adds. "Though ventilation was mostly a matter of castles built before chimneys were invented. As for the animal smell, if you changed the rushes regularly, that wasn't a problem. it's like keeping any home clean." she cranes her head, looking up into the cavernous heights of the place. She wonders how deep they have to be under the docks, where the basements don't reach them. "And you're one to talk about caves. The only difference between this place and most caves is a lack of moss and animals and hermits lurking at the back of them. She pauses. "Well, and the distinct lack of machinery."

 "You know caves?" Harkness asks, giving her an assessing look again. She's just proved to be more interesting, which is a way to catch his interest. Davies still seems content to stay in the background, which ordinarily would mean Susan would concentrate on him, but Harkness does, against all her instincts, actually seem to be the one in charge. For once big and brash is the one to watch. Which is interesting. It's not often people use the brash personality as the smokescreen in her experience. Normally, the brash person is the one whose opinion of themselves is so large that they couldn't conceive of a smokescreen, so you focus on the quiet one as the one who you have to watch. Not that she'll not check on Davies, but still. 

 "I prefer not to for any length of time. They tend to be just as hard to keep warm as castles, with more of a damp problem. and even less ventilation." Susan says.

 "But it seems you do know castles." Powell points out.

 "I could." She concedes. No matter what they think, she's hardly going to reveal anything she doesn't have to. she sighs. "I really did have high hopes for normality."

 "Hey, normal is overrated." Jack grins. "And you, miss, could never be mistaken for normal."

 Powell puts his files down and comes round the table. "So who are you, lovely? You look far too nice to be hanging around with the likes of Captain Harkness."

 Harkness, reminded that she's there, turns. "Powell, this is Susan Pevensie. Welcome to the Torchwood Institute, miss Pevensie. the bit of the service no-one really likes to admit exists. we keep an eye on all the things that go bump in the dark and stop them spilling over. you've met Powell, our archivist, and Myra Hughes, our mechanic and part time receptionist. we've a doctor somewhere around here, name of McAdam, and our boss is currently off in meetings."

 "And you asked me here why, precisely?" Susan asks, raising an eyebrow. Behind her, Davies coughs, holding out a mug of tea, milk bottle in one hand. "Thank you, Mr Davies. No milk, thank you.” She takes the mug, blowing on the tea to cool it down a little. She's not removing her hat and coat just yet.

 Harkness smiles again, folding his arms, fixing her with a serious look. "Because, miss Pevensie, there are a great many things that go bump in the night and we need people to help us stay on top of the situation. It's difficult to recruit as it's not precisely something we can advertise in the classifieds. And along you come, who doesn't blink an eye at seeing what looks like a man with a fish head, identifies him as such in the very dim light of a dark alley, diagnoses paralysis rather than death, and calmly shoots someone when he tries to attack her and walks away. The fact that you stopped rather than running away in the first place was impressive. The fact that you clearly have experience with the supernatural and strange is definitely a point in your favour. Then third, there was the fact of you making a shot in the dark and claiming to Davies that you were in fact out of practice, which points to a wealth of experience picked up somewhere. Besides the fact that I'd like my gun back, this raises definite questions like 'would this sort of person be bored out of their mind as a typist in Customs and Excise?' I'm inclined to think so. Would you agree, miss Pevensie?"

 Susan keeps her face impassive. Bored out of her mind and feeling like her brain and skills are wasting away is putting it mildly. it's all right for Peter and Edmund, they've found professions that suit them, and Lucy's devoted to nursing enough that she's happy doing that, but Susan... her parents seem to believe she should be focussed on being decorative and finding a husband now the war's over. Which goes to show how little idea they really have. Susan is stifled, and trained for better things. It's only her extremely well cultivated instincts and manners that stop her going mad. "It all depends. What kind of salary would you be offering?" She asks.

 "Mercenary." Myra says approvingly. "I'm beginning to warm to her."

 "A very, very good one." Harkness states. "We're well funded since there’s an inherent amount of danger involved in the job, and the Institute believes in remuneration for the interesting circumstances we tend to recruit people from. So what do you say, miss Pevensie. Fancy a job at Torchwood?"

 "I feel I could be persuaded." She raises an eyebrow. "Would you require references?"

 "Telling us where you gained our skills and experience might be a start." Davies says from behind his own cuppa. "We couldn't find anything."

 "Oh, places." Susan says, sipping her tea. "When would you like me to give notice?"

 "Today." Harkness says, smiling in a manner that reminds her very slightly of a shark. The brain and experience ticking in there is getting more and more interesting. "Turn up for work tomorrow at 9am sharp. And miss Pevensie, I would really like my gun returned."

 Susan smiles. "I'll let you know if I know where it is when I get my contract."

 When she finishes her tea, Susan walks back to the Customs and Excise House, letting herself in. It's barely been a couple of hours. Nearly lunch time, and she bets Georgie and Sian are discussing where to get food already. They'll spend their lunch excitedly discussing which of the latest pictures to go see tonight. It's a relatively pleasant way to spend the time, since it just washes over her and the films they agree on tend to be quite entertaining for the most part. 

 When she steps in, everyone perks up immediately. Mrs Jones gets there first. "So were you able to help them with their enquiries?" She asks, then sniffs. "You were gone rather a long time."

 "A little less than an hour and a half, by my watch." Susan says calmly. "And yes, I did."

 "And?"

 "I'm giving in my notice." Susan replies.

 "What?" asks Tilly. "Are you having to bunk it or something?"

 "Don't be silly, Tilly." Susan says. "They just noticed my skills fit a position going there and it pays rather better than here."

 "What kind of position?" Mrs Jones sniffs.

 "I'm not at liberty to say." Susan says. "It seems to mostly involve being calm under pressure."

 "Well, you've certainly got that in spades." Tilly says. "When do you start?"

\---  


 At ten to nine, Susan is standing outside the dockside door when Myra turns up. She says cheerfully. "I had ten to one on you doing a bunk when you came to your senses."

 "Trust me, there is exceedingly little in life that could shock me." Susan says as Myra lets them in. "Besides, I'd already given my notice in."

 "well, we'll see." Myra says. She picks up the mail, sorting through it. She holds one up, squinting at it. "I swear, whoever's sending postcards here is quite insane."

 "Wrong address?" Susan asks.

 "I don't think so. Quite specific, actually." Myra says, passing it over as she sorts through the rest of the mail. "I mean, I could understand if it was meant for someone in the London office or the one up in Scotland, but they're definitely addressing it to here."

 Susan flips it over to read the address. 'Dear all, hope you're fine. Having a lovely time here. John Smith.' The address reads Torchwood Institute, The little office by the water, The Docks, Butetown, Cardiff. She flips it over. It's a plain postcard, with a pencil and ink sketch on it of some building. "Perhaps it's addressed to someone who used to work here?"

 Myra shakes her head. "Jack says they've been sent here for as long as he's worked here, and Gwyn says there's hundreds of them in a cabinet in the archives, all sorted by date, all in the same style, going back to the turn of the century. The handwriting changes, and the picture's always new. He thinks they're sent as part of some sort of bequest. Or an ongoing joke by the Masons or something."

 "Gwyn?" Susan asks.

 "Sorry, love. Gwyn Powell. Our archivist. I tend to call everyone by their first names, you soon do." She says, pressing something under the counter, then pushing the door open. 

 Susan examines the door. There doesn't seem to be any sign of a lock, and she'd presumed it had been unlocked yesterday when she went through it. "Couldn't anyone get in?"

 "We've got some clever devices here in Torchwood." Myra grins. "I get to work with all kinds of things you wouldn't believe. There is a lock on the door, it's you. The door is keyed to let only a specific list of people open the door, you'll get added to the list soon enough."

 "How do you do that, some sort of magic?" Susan asks.

 "Oh, she wants to know how things work." Myra grins. "I'm going to like you."

 "Simply curious." Susan shrugs.

 "Curious is just the first path on a slippery slope, my nan always said." Myra says. "No, you put your hand in a machine we've got downstairs and this light runs over you, and takes some sort of reading. Jack says there's a type of genetic code that's unique to everyone, like fingerprints, in all your cells, and what it's reading is that."

 First on the agenda in Susan's training is guns. Captain Harkness, who insists on being called Jack, opens a door down one of the corridors to the range. "In here, and put on the safety glasses on the table. We've got a range here and a sparring area for training in other forms of weaponry next door."

 The table and wall opposite are covered in guns. All kinds of guns, from pistols to rifles to something... purple. She's really not sure what it could be, but presumes that since it's amongst the guns, it's experimental. Or meant to be used underwater or something similar. "You've got enough in here to equip a decent-sized battalion. Were you expecting to be attacked?" She asks.

 "ready for anything, and it's a dangerous job." Harkness replies, shoving his hands in his pockets after putting on a pair of glasses with thick lenses.

 On the other wall are a host of other projectile weapons, mostly of the medieval sort. Amongst them bows and crossbows. "You really are ready for anything." She refrains from reaching out and stroking the bows, just for something familiar. She's missed them over the past few years. even a crossbow would be nice. She never looked forward to fights as her siblings did, but you never realise how used to it you get. to the point of being used to having a weapon within reach at all times, and using it regularly.

 "Different weapons for different jobs." Harkness points out. He hands her a pair of glasses. "Put these on, and pick up a pistol. you said you were rusty, let's see how much."

 Susan puts the glasses on. "What precisely are these for?"

 "In case of blow back or anything exploding." Harkness replies. "Best to protect your eyes in an enclosed room. Can't do it in the field, but we can certainly do it in here. The glass is toughened and shatter-proof."

 "I suppose that's reassuring." Susan says, picking up a handgun that looks to be a comfortable fit. She examines it, noting that it's loaded. She practised with one during the war, as it only seemed sensible, but hasn't used one since. It's a little disappointing how little skill they take to use, but then it's not as though wielding a knife takes any sort of experience to be deadly with. There's a target hanging up made of paper on the far wall. "I hope there's more ammo."

 "Plenty for all of the weapons in here." Jack says. "We like everyone to be proficient in all the guns at the very least, and that takes practice." He folds his arms. "Go ahead, then."

 Susan weighs it in her hands, figuring out the balance, turning the safety off, before raising it, adjusting the balance again, then fires, this time remembering to adjust for the recoil as she didn't in the alley. the recoil still gets her, and she misses the target by a good inch or so. She narrows her eyes, breathes in carefully, and adjusts. The second shot just clips it. Third and it's bullseye. Again and again. After the sixth one, she lowers the pistol, putting the safety on and putting it back on the table.

 Harkness looks impressed. "Not bad. How often do you practice?"

 "Three days ago was the first time I'd picked up a gun since 1944." Susan says. "And as you know, I only shot one three days ago."

 "Okay, try another one." Harkness says, gesturing at the table. After the third one, he's got his head on one side and a contemplative look on his face. "Okay, let's see you try one of the rifles."

 "I haven't used one of these before." Susan says. "I might not be as good."

 "Practice makes perfect, miss Pevensie." Harkness says. 

 It takes about six shots to get a clean shot with the rifle. Susan frowns, displeased, but then the weight and way it handles is very much like a crossbow. Certainly not made for accuracy unless she was on sniper duty. "I think I'd prefer to be somewhere further off to get a decent shot with this."

 Harkness isn't just looking contemplative now. he's got his mouth slightly open, and looking interested. Very interested. "...who trained you?"

 "I'm self taught." Susan replies, truthfully. Constant practice after having her first weapon shoved in her hands and told the enemy was on its way and the battle was a few hours away. She wasn't accurate then, and her weapon wasn't designed for accuracy but range, but she learned. because she had to.

 She puts the rifle down and goes through a few of the other guns at Harkness' insistence, mid-range and heavier. He rubs his chin, looking down at the table of guns, then looks at the wall of bows and the like that she's been very carefully not looking at, in case she stares for too long. "Okay, how about other weapons? have you got any experience with those?"

 Susan shrugs again. "a few." She looks along the wall. "Where's the ammo for these?"

 Harkness indicates the cupboard on the wall. "Knock yourself out." Susan nods, and just hopes that everything's of decent quality and been kept correctly, especially the strings. the amount of people who seem to believe you can store a bow strung is unbelievable. Fortunately, the bows are unstrung. She picks a crossbow off the wall first, simply because she wants to ease herself in. These aren't guns, they're the weapons she's used to. She checks the crossbow over, and Harkness raises an eyebrow. "You're a bit more thorough on the checking there."

 "There's more possibility of a split hiding in a crossbow than there is in a gun." Susan replies offhandedly. "Most people in this day and age have no idea how to keep them in decent working condition." Once she's finished checking it over, she drops the arrow in, raises it and fires. The trigger mechanism's smooth, and it's a nice piece. Even the twang of the bowstring relaxes her slightly, as she hasn't heard it in so long, and it used to be a near daily sound. She tries a few other stringed weapons, then goes for the bow, frowning. "Do you not have any gloves or arm guards for this?"

 Harkness still has a raised eyebrow. It might stay that way at this rate. "Bottom case of that cupboard. Might not fit you, though."

 "Anything's better than raw fingers or a bleeding arm from the string." Susan says, crouching down to rummage in it, pulling out what she needs and fitting them on. They're not the most functional, but still, better than nothing. She picks up the composite bow and strings it, testing the draw and relaxing as she does, the tension from typing and office work starting to bleed from her shoulders with the sheer familiarity of it. The smell's not right, it's not yew or ash and they're not using tallow or resin, but still. She picks up an arrow, draws and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for an instant, then letting go. Opening her eyes, it's just off bullseye. a couple more and she's hitting dead centre. She can't help it now, she's smiling. She unstrings it and picks up the longbow. It's a nice 6 footer by her eye.

 Harkness speaks up, a note of caution in his tone. "Careful, that's got a much heavier draw than it looks. You might damage your shoulder."

 Susan grins, wide and gleeful. "Oh, I know." She strings it with a bit of effort, given that she's out of practice, but not too much, pulls it a few times to get a feel for it, noting that it's not perfect - after all, it's not her bow - but still. She shifts her feet a bit to get a better stance, lowers it, picks up an arrow, aims, and fires. "One inch off." She murmurs, picking up another arrow, aiming, and getting a bullseye. Two more and she regretfully puts the longbow down, unstringing it, her hand lingering on the wood before moving on to the other weapons.

 By now Harkness is looking seriously impressed. And very, very calculating. "is there any kind of ballistics you aren't perfect in after examining it for thirty seconds?" He asks, not a little sarcastically.

 Susan shrugs again. "I'm not as good with knives and hand-to-hand as I really should be, but I fully admit that that's due to a lack of dedication."

 "Clearly we'll have to work on that." He says dryly, and grins on seeing her fingers brush the longbow again. "You really do like that one, don't you?"

 "I've got a certain long-term fondness for it." Susan says, picking it up and stringing it again, this time going for range and speed.

 Harkness watches for a few minutes. "Maybe we should let you carry that into the field instead of a gun." 

 Susan sighs. "Don't be ridiculous, there's no way to conceal it. I thought you said this was a branch of the secret service."

 "We're on a slightly separate charter and mandate from them." Harkness says. "Originally signed by Queen Victoria herself."

 "I presume that's meant to impress me. I'd like to see the original." Susan says, between arrows, varying her targets.

 "It's kept up in the Scotland archives, so it might take a while." Harkness says.

 ---

 Gibson comes back two days later. After going through his messages, Jack raps on his office door. "Dare I ask for your report of the past few days? Did the Rift open again or did you manage to annoy any more policemen?"

 "Can't report either, sir." Harkness replies. "It's been relatively quiet, apart from recruiting a new member."

 Gibson sips his tea, which has gone mostly cool in the time he's been stuck in here. He'd like an assistant to deal with that kind of thing, but Torchwood doesn't bother with them, and anyone who has a talent for admin tends to get fast-tracked to London or Scotland, if they're not hijacked by the archival section. Which often means they end up in Scotland anyway. "This would be the Pevensie girl you'd been talking about?"

 "Correct, sir." Jack says. "She seems to be fitting in well."

 "That never bodes well." He puts his mug down. "Dare I ask why you recruited her? Last I heard when I left was that you'd finished dragging up all the research on her in order to ascertain that you could convince her to keep quiet in the name of national security. And get your gun back."

 Jack grins. "Slight change of plans when we met her, sir. When someone turns out to be as efficient, poised and strangely knowledgeable as she is, I believe in proactive recruitment. Plus she's fitter than Davies so might be better in the field, since she wouldn't take several minutes to recover after giving chase."

 "Strangely knowledgeable? Dare I ask?" Gibson says, taking another sip. In his experience, strangely knowledgeable can often lead to difficulties. Or people like Jack Harkness, one of the best examples nature provides of 'difficult but too useful to get rid of'.

 "Remember in my report I stated that she immediately identified Nolan as amphibious, rather than wearing a mask, like most people would? And what looked like working experience of the effect of nerve toxins. When we interviewed her, she immediately ran through reasons why it wasn't a mask. Considering that she only saw him in a dimly-lit alley. That indicates prior knowledge. If you talk to her for a while when she's consciously not around civilians, things slip out. Odd comments and knowledge that I would dearly love to know the context of." Jack pauses. "Oh, and she's possibly one of the best marksmen I've ever seen. Adapts within a few shots to hitting the bullseye with any weapon, stance that of one who's used to making those shots in the field, not a shooting range. And given her reaction to the more low-tech weapons we keep, her preferred weapon is the bow. She's got a far better draw weight than anyone I've seen outside the middle ages for a longbow, and given that we're talking a young woman of seemingly average musculature..." He leans against the door. "Pretty good hand-to-hand fighter, really, really good with a sword and knives, amazing with anything that resembles a projectile, but insists that she's a little rusty and that hand-held weapons aren't in the least bit her speciality. I don't know where she got the experience, there is nothing in the records to indicate how she could get it, but I believe in scooping someone like that up straight away. Plus she's efficient, nice, and could probably cruise straight to the top of the diplomat league given the chance. She was wasting away as a typist, even in Customs and Excise, and you know what calculating bastards they are."

 "This is a disturbingly enthusiastic character reference, Jack." Gibson says, though he'll have to see her weapons skills for himself. It's not like Jack to ever exaggerate that kind of thing. sexual escapades, of course, but not anything required for the field. "Wasn't she the one with brothers who'd been marked by their superiors as incredibly dangerous due to their clear experience with controlled violence? It appears to be a family trait, then. Though the proficiency with a longbow is definitely strange."

 "She denies it ever being an option to do at school, sir."

 Gibson meets the new recruit later that morning. A very lovely young woman, if not a little practised in the art of being politic and excessively polite to the point of bland in the face of authority. Other than that she seems quite normal. "Harkness, are you telling me you recruited someone who appears to pass for a respectable member of society?"

 "Miracles do happen." Davies says.

\-----  


 A month into Susan's employment, a craft with a cloaking device is detected on the very advanced radar Torchwood scraped up from somewhere (apparently mostly scavenged, Myra confides, with the look of someone who would volunteer to be first in line with a crowbar and screwdriver). The field crew, including Gibson, goes out to meet it.

 As they materialise - in quite an impressive fashion, it's as though they're a radio signal that expands until they spear out of thin air - Jack pulls out his gun, ready for anything. he's seen this kind of technology before, and it doesn't normally bode well for the planet they visit. or at least the population. Blue-skinned, tall beings with all the bearing of ruthless bastards. He's raising it as they step forward, when a voice says in sharp ringing tones "Stand down, captain." It's a voice that's so used to command that every single one of Jack's soldier muscles take over and he finds himself lowering his gun as Susan Pevensie steps forward.

 She's relaxed, poised, and giving off such commanding vibes he nearly tries to salute. The aliens speak, and the universal translator takes a few seconds to kick in. Susan waits patiently. "The weapon, we shall take this as-"

 Susan smiles graciously. "I am terribly sorry about that. he's our military specialist, and as I'm sure your scans of our planet have shown - I presume you can tap into recent footage - we've just been through rather a nasty war, so he's a little on edge. It's understandable."

 "Ah, yes, we had seen in advance. but still, an insult -"

 "Surely not. You came with no advance warning, no messages sent; according to the protocol of nations that is rather unbecoming, don't you think? You might have given us a chance to lay on a welcome. Instead, this has all the appearance of a scouting party to test our defences when caught off guard." Susan says. It's a calm, conciliatory tone, with overtones of gentle scolding for impoliteness, not one young woman with just the back up of the guns with them against the scouting party of - the fire-power in the ship overhead alone could take out half of South Wales. Britain's just not ready for this kind of assault, not so soon after the war, a damaged, limping greyed out version of itself. And Susan's talking as though she's the head of a nation that has a giant army just hidden out of sight for politeness.

 Two hours later, they're waving off the aliens. With a signed treaty of peace, trade locked in, an embargo, registered notations with the Shadow Proclamation, and the rest of Torchwood left looking a little shell-shocked. Susan simply straightens her scarf and Jack tries to stop looking like a loyal military advisor. "A little warning next time you do that?" Jack asks her. "I might have been able to do something."

 "You didn't need to, did you." Susan smiles graciously. "Now, let's go and find a cup of tea. Or possibly a drink. That was rather a lot of talking there. Davies, do you have the accord?"

 "Er, yes miss." Davies says, swallowing as he clutches a set of discs and a roll of film.

 "Good. Now let's find a pub, they should be open for long enough for us to get a drink." Susan says, marching forward in search of one.

 "Do I want to know where the bloody hell that came from?" Gibson asks, looking a bit shaken, as Susan leads the way, everyone else stumbling behind. "I'm not used to having a slip of a girl step in, take control of what could have been a very nasty situation, and... since when do you take orders from a new recruit?"

 "When the new recruit knows the tone of voice that comes with being used to command, sir." Jack says ruefully, eyes not leaving Susan. If that wasn't impressive he doesn't know what is. She went from her usual poised, efficient self to something like one of the many rulers he's encountered. That much confidence and expectation that she'd be obeyed. Absolute confidence of those used to commanding armies and having their word as law. The most experience he can find on file for her in a command position is Head Girl. "Some times you have to concede to someone who clearly knows exactly what they're doing. and look on the bright side, we came out on top."

 Gibson winces "Jack, she got a non-proliferation agreement, what sounded like exceedingly favourable trade terms, and a penalty clause citing articles of - who were they? You're the one with experience in off-world matters."

 "The Shadow Proclamation." Jack says. "Either she picks up things very fast or she's been going through every note she can find on our system. Perhaps she ought to be our advance guard against Torchwood London if she's this good. we could loan her out for the budget rounds."

 "I think you recruited a very dangerous young woman, Jack. How does that come from a middle-class family from Finchley?" Gibson asks, shaking his head. "I believe I really do need that drink."

 


	2. Edmund

The inside of the club is a haven of dark wood and leather couches, a seemingly timeless refuge from the upheaval and war that has raged across Europe and the far-flung corners of the world for the past several years. In here you can pretend nothing has changed, that the Empire is still valid, and there haven't been Americans encamped across the country or bombs devastating the cities, that rationing hasn't intruded into the daily lives of everyone, with its restrictions on food and new clothes and petrol. Of course, there have always been ways round such things, and this is a set of men devoted to getting round restrictions - from borders to the seemingly non-existent papers, never mind nylons and meat - but still, the world intrudes. The whisky served is given in smaller measures, or made to eke out longer. The heavy velvet curtains disguise where the blackout tape hasn't quite been removed from the windows. The uniforms of the waiters are a little shabby in places, and the young men themselves sometimes have scarring. the toast that accompanies the kedgeree is dry, made from inferior flour, all that you can get these days; the war over for months, but the effects still so keenly felt outside.

 Still, change has come, and it must be faced. These grey-faced men who twitch their fingers and send men and women to the corners of the earth, to the dark and nameless shadows to attempt to pull the strings of nations and governments. Start wars and stop them, attempt to influence policy and stop new ideas taking form and absorbing other nations. Money in this one's pocket, what little Britain has, hobbled and poverty-stricken and scarred and in so much debt after the war. Access to a strange item there. A killing here, a warm body to share an official’s bed there. The nation itself, for the most part, is taking care of itself. Too tired to create much revolution. The communists that rise in the east and Asia and Africa and the islands off America aren't too interested in Britain, there's been too little in the way of hooks for them to get their fingers into.

 One of the few home soil things that must be dealt with is replacements for positions, either due to death or simply being moved elsewhere to similar circumstances. The position that currently needs filling, however, is one of the positions that normally go to those the service dislikes. Unfortunately, they cannot simply shove a useless employee into it, as attempts to do that previously resulted in the organisation they were put in as buffer running circles round them or merely circumventing them. Sad to say, they have to use someone competent. It's just bloody annoying to waste someone who could be of use elsewhere on this position. Not to mention the situations they have to deal with are something no-one would like to admit exists. Or even believe exists. This kind of thing is pushed even further under the carpet than royal sexual peccadilloes. Sadly, the organisation that deals with this kind of matter was created precisely so that the rest of the Empire didn't have to deal with such matters and go about their daily business unaware that such things exist. 

 The main problem is that the kind of person they attract is even further from the norm that end up in the service, and they become a law unto themselves quickly, the situations they deal with on a daily basis skewing their natural talents and lawlessness to frightening levels. Those that do well in the service would not do well on civvy street, the demands of the job requiring talents and personalities that most would consider deviant. Those that do well in the organisation under examination right now are even moreso. Even the relatively law-abiding that end up in their service skew quickly.

 "So. Torchwood." Gregson says, packing tobacco into his pipe, the action a way to distract himself from what he's talking of. make it a chore, not something he wants to acknowledge that they have to deal with, rather than pushing it to the corners and periphery of his attention.

 Major Price winces. "Must we even speak of them?"

 "Sadly, yes." Gregson says. "They do provide a valued service. We may not want to admit that the supernatural exists, but they do their best to handle and contain it. Queen Victoria herself provided their charter for this purpose. I have witnessed some of the things they deal with as a matter of fact, and would not want to inflict it on the rest of the service. they were, loath as I am to admit, of exceeding help against some parts of Hitler's more deranged departments and plans."

 "So what about it? Are they asking for more money?" Dudley says. "We're strapped enough for cash as it is. don't they know we've only just recovered from a war?"

 "The war is precisely the problem." Gregson states. "The egg that previously dealt with their affairs and filtering of their problems was killed when an unexploded bomb went off in Birmingham last month. there were only a few casualties, but our woman was one of them. Pity. She was a very useful thing. Sharp as a pin. We require someone to deal with the problems that Torchwood brings, and unfortunately they have to be competent, or Torchwood will simply run roughshod and bring their demands directly to our door. Normally in the shape of Harkness, and I know that enough of you have dealt with him to know that this is not an affair we wish to repeat. He kept relatively under the radar during the war as he had his own missions, but they are very aware that he's their most effective weapon when they want to make noise and be very difficult."

 Dudley snorts. "Well, I'm not pulling any of my lot away from their work. they're needed, and I won't have them running around playing babysitter for a bunch of spook-chasers."

 Major Price sips at his tea, looking off into the distance, drumming his fingers. "What about some of the up and comers? Does anyone have someone who's a little inconvenient or too bright for normal use? There's always someone like that in the new ranks, and normally they get killed off relatively quickly. This way we might get their brain cells split enough that the part not being used by Torchwood is of use."

 "It's an idea. Do any names spring to mind?" Gregson asks. "It might take a few days, time to review some files, that sort of thing."

 Dudley scowls, taking a pull from his fag. "If you want annoying, potentially volatile and almost certainly trouble, I have a candidate. He's currently been working with our east European offices. Rather good at working with the truly volatile cases. My man seems to take that sort of thing in stride."

 "Is he competent?" Gregson asks. "We do require competency, not just someone on the verge of being a live wire or ticking bomb."

 Dudley rubs his nose. "That is part of the problem. He's so competent that others keep looking over their shoulder for the knife in the back that's sure to come when they least expect it because they're deemed obsolete or in the way."

 "I can understand why you might want his attention directed elsewhere." Gregson says ruefully. "What are his other qualities?"

 Dudley purses his lips, frowning. "When I said he takes volatility in other agents in stride, I really was not exaggerating. I've never seen him turn a hair or be surprised by any situation. has a practically supernatural tolerance for behaviour out of the ordinary. It's suspected he came out of the womb like that."

 "Well, it's a point in his favour if he has to deal with Torchwood. Some of the situations they get themselves into..." Gregson pauses. "Do you suppose he has prior experience with such?"

 "If he did, he wouldn't say. Extremely close-mouthed little bugger who seems determined to go through life unimpressed by anything. We suspect if the devil himself appeared in front of him, he'd merely assess them, ask what they wanted, shoot him if necessary, and then clean up. He'd take it as a point of pride."

 "Seems a very good fit and point in his favour, then. What else?"

 "He's got a talent for violence and killing. Specifically, he has never had to be taught anything aside from how to handle a gun. It's generally reckoned that it's a family trait, as probing his brother's record in the army and his school record brings up stories of the ability to put a fight down fast, hard and making sure that none of the other combatants could get up again any time soon. He's killed without turning a hair from the off. we've tried to ascertain any criminal behaviour prior to this, but either it's simply natural born talent or he's very, very good at hiding things."

 Gregson frowns. "That's not necessarily an advantage."

 "I didn't say it was. Fortunately, he's shown no signs of going off the rails or becoming a killer outside what the work requires of him. he simply prefers... neatness." Dudley rubs his nose again. "It can be very disconcerting when first encountered. It still is. Further traits... hmm. Too sharp for his own good, and really does not care about showing up his superiors as long as the job is done correctly."

 "Definitely a disadvantage. I can understand why you might want to be rid of him." Price agrees. "Anything else?"

 "An invert, and not inclined to hide it." Gregson says.

 "Ah." Price rubs his moustache. "It's not unheard of, but precisely how inclined?"

 "Not ... flamboyant as such, but does not hide his regard for men, especially when interest is shown."

 "Still, it might be an advantage when dealing with Harkness."

 "Unless, of course, Harkness' flirting gets in the way of the work. He has very little tolerance for that kind of thing."

 "Well, they might definitely clash there. Harkness does love his showmanship and obfuscation." Gregson observes. "Still, we can't know until we introduce them."

 Price frowns. "I thought Harkness wasn't the head of Torchwood? the files list him as a field agent. long serving, yes, but..." he pauses. "You talk about him as though he's got more influence than the head of the organisation."

 Gregson coughs. "Long enough that he tends to influence policy. Besides, as the most... forthright member of Torchwood, Harkness is often the make or break for those who have to act as liaison. If you can't cope with Harkness, you won't be able to last long. Besides, Harkness has a tendency to ferret out any weak points or nerves and play on them if he thinks you're lacking."

 "The advance guard. Fascinating way to run business." Dudley observes. "Not professional in the slightest, but a decent way to weed out people, one supposes. Still, not a good thing to let your most annoying field agent dictate policy."

 "Torchwood has always been somewhat eccentric in its policy, sad to say." Gregson says, leaning back in his chair. "Now what was the name of your agent that you wish to throw to the wolves?"

 Dudley takes a considered puff on his fag. "Pevensie. Edmund Pevensie."

 Gregson makes a pained sound, going so far as to massage his temples.

 Dudley raises an eyebrow. "Everything all right, old man?"

 "He wouldn't have a sister named Susan, would he?" Gregson asks.

 "Might do, why?" Dudley answers. "Met her, have we? I've seen the photos, quite an attractive young woman. Works for Customs and Excise out in Cardiff as a typist, described as a very sensible young woman. Family seems quite clean as a whole - younger sister training to be a nurse, older brother found his stride in the army. Is she involved in something we should be aware of?" 

 "Not quite." Gregson sighs. "Susan Pevensie is now listed as one of the members of the Torchwood Cardiff team in the last set of reports I saw from them. Let's hope she proves a mitigating influence."

 ---

 Edmund Pevensie straightens his jacket before knocking on Dudley's door. "You wished to see me, sir?"

 "Yes, come in, Pevensie. I've a new assignment for you." Dudley says. 

 Edmund nods fractionally, more an acknowledgement than anything. the secret service is a very odd place. It's so hidebound by protocol and old school ties it's quite difficult to believe, and the jealousy and reasons for doing things can be stunningly vague. Not to mention the sheer levels of self-deception that go on in some places. Still, they get things done. Edmund tends to keep to his mild-mannered face and just be terribly efficient. And what keeps getting termed as being terribly ruthless by the others Edmund, due to his background, simply believes in getting things done because he knows precisely what happens if you leave loose ends and that quick is often the best. He misses having all his contacts and being the one at the centre of the web, but he's working with what he's got, and for now, concentrating on getting the job done. Dudley is distinctly one of the ones who may have a sharp, incisive mind, but he clings desperately onto the notion of Empire and loves the trappings of the club a little too much.

 It's blood annoying having to censor his reports to only slightly more than would be expected of an agent of his age and experience, but any more would attract suspicion. He learnt that in school, when they returned. 

 The first history essay he wrote after coming back was covered in red ink, and his solutions labelled as ruthless and overly complex, as the teacher didn't get much of his reasoning. Edmund was used to formulating reports and analysis for people who understand expediency and the pressures of running a country. He forgot that dusty teachers have no clue about politics. He'd been leafing through the Plantagenets and making comments when they discussed it in class along the lines of "I completely understand why they did this, they'd been backed into a corner, and the circumstances if you take this into consideration, and of course the treaty takes ages to formulate when you've got this many barons." He'd paused, flicking back through the rather inadequately detailed textbook. Still, it was enough that you could read between the lines of the situation. "hmm. which son was he negotiating to be married off?" The teacher didn't answer him. Everyone was too busy staring. After that he learnt to be clever but not too clever. A boy who read books. The secret service is like that - too clever and you get a red flag and your every move shadowed. Clever enough, keeping quiet and gaining a reputation of never letting on what precisely it is you know and you're a smart arse. they can cope with smart arses.

 Dudley picks up a paper in one hand, and knocks the ash off his fag with his other into the little marble ashtray on his desk. "We find ourself in need of a liaison for another agency."

 Edmund raises his eyebrow fractionally. "Another agency? Which country?" It's not uncommon, but it tends to be individual departments or spies, not entire agencies.

 "This one, would you believe. I don't know if you've heard of it, we tend to hush it up rather a lot since what they do involves actively hiding things from the public eye even more than spies. There is plenty in this world that we'd really rather not let the public know existed." Dudley brings the fag to his his lips and fiddles with it for a second or so, collecting his thoughts, before taking a perfunctory drag off it. "Are you aware of the supernatural and weird, Pevensie?"

 "To what extent, sir?" Edmund asks. he'd really rather not reveal how much he knows without knowing precisely where this is going.

 "Sad to say, rather a lot of it exists, just not necessarily in the form fairy tales would have you believe. The Torchwood Institute was founded to keep the things that go bump in the night below the notice of the average British citizen. Heard of them?" He asks, flicking through another set of papers. he almost seems disinclined to concentrate on what he's talking about, which indicates that he doesn't want to be dealing with it and would really rather pass it onto someone else.

 "Sir. My sister Susan works for them out in Cardiff. She didn't mention the supernatural, though." Edmund says. He's lying through his teeth, of course. Susan told him, Peter and Lucy as soon as she got recruited by them. it's simply better in the long and short run to not keep secrets within the family unless it's for the good of the family and nation, and the existence of an agency dedicated to keeping in order monsters, aliens and a large rift in space and time being centred in Cardiff are somewhat important facts for them to know. he'd heard whispers and rumours of such an agency, but hadn't had the time to follow up on any leads of his own, though he'd kept his ears open for any further tidbits. It was certainly an interesting revelation, if nothing else.

 "In some way they're far better at keeping secrets than we are. Well, aside from the Bletchley lot. though we'll see when it comes to them. Anyway. the public as a whole doesn't even know of Torchwood's existence, unlike spies. They've offices in London, Cardiff, Ireland and Scotland. London is a little more bureaucratic, Scotland is the information hub. Wales and Ireland are a little more savage - think the equivalent of Roman forts on Hadrian's wall. A little savage, gone native, but still have to be the first line of defence for civilisation." Dudley says. "Anyway, the nature of the business being what it is, we need a liaison between agencies for advance warning of what might cross over between the respective worlds to ensure there are no nasty surprises. and you, Pevensie, have been chosen."

 "Might I ask why, sir?" Edmund asks, keeping to his usual blank face.

 "We need someone competent and not easily impressed by superiors. I'm sure you're surprised that you might have been noticed for those traits." Dudley says. "Your biggest asset, though, is the fact that you're impossible to shock. It tend to come in handy in difficult situations that involve the odd and unexplained." He looks down at his papers, then back. "Something I wanted to know, however, Pevensie."

 "Sir?" Edmund asks.

 "Is it an act?" Dudley asks.

 "Is what an act, sir?" Edmund asks.

 "The never being shocked. I can understand attempting to keep a stiff upper lip, but you manage to give off the impression of never even having turned a hair. So is it a supremely good act? I wouldn't say you're the type to have a cold stone in the place of your heart, we have that type and they're easy to spot."

 Edmund assumes a thoughtful expression for a few seconds, then shrugs. "I think it's probable that I've simply seen too much, sir."

 "Which leads to the question which we've never been able to ferret out of you; what the hell did you do during the war?"

 Edmund smiles. "Not my place to say, sir."

 "Bloody cryptic bastard. Well, we'll be introducing you round Torchwood London, then to Torchwood Cardiff. the Welsh lot seem to cause the most problems. You'll be given a briefing on Group Captain Harkness, if only to prepare you."

 After that meeting, Edmund rings the number his sister's given him to reach her at work. "Susan Pevensie, Torchwood Institute. How can I help?"

 "Susan, it's Edmund."

 "Glad to hear from you. How is running around Europe doing questionable things in the name of national security?" she asks.

 "Reasonable." He pauses. "What precisely are you doing down there, Su? I've been told I'm now designated as the main liaison between your lot and mine."

 There's a pause before his sister answers. "the official statement or what we actually do? And do you want me to adhere to official secrets act protocol?" She asks. 

 "Pevensie protocol, of course." Edmund answers. Official Secrets Act is a bugger to try to get anything of use said, even over private phone lines. 

 "It seems to mostly involve running down dark alleys chasing after werewolves, arbitrating disputes and making sure trade agreements stick." Susan says dryly. "A good pair of shoes to run in really does help. As does the number of a very good laundry woman."

 "So aside from the running down dark alleys, not entirely unlike running Narnia." Edmund says.

 "Less banquets and full scale wars. And replace the blood and having to corral Peter with slime and having to hope Jack Harkness doesn't disrupt everything with his propensity to flirt with everything breathing." 

 "Everything?" Edmund asks, raising an eyebrow.

 "He would find something attractive about a Marshwiggle, Ed." Susan sighs. "And then make suggestive comments about it."

 "Dear lord." Edmund says.

 "Precisely." Susan says. "I suppose we should give thanks that he's got a modicum of a sense the rest of the time."

 ---

 MI6 come calling, as they occasionally do when they need help. Torchwood Three get quite a bit of business due to several of them having dealt directly with Jack during the war, and spies prefer to deal through the old boys network. It puts London's nose out of joint slightly, but they're in with MI5 and the Ministry, so can't complain too much. They're supposed to be sending someone down on Friday, so Jack reckons he might as well enjoy himself the night before.

 "Going out?" Myra asks, sitting on the floor of the garage, surrounded with bits of... something. They look a little like a fusion of Nestene and something from the early 21st century, all circuit boards.

 "yep." Jack says. "You happy down there? Got enough lube?"

 "Don't be silly, lube would do terrible things to the connections. Solder, on the other hand, and *this* little gadget.." She says, gleefully holding up a universal modulator.

 "Happy as a pig in a mud hole, you are." Jack says. "Don't create anything that's going to take over the city."

 "I would never do that. Too much work afterwards trying to clean up." Myra says, making notes on a pad. "As for you, don't wreak too much havoc, we don't want too many of Cardiff's populace looking shell-shocked tomorrow morning."

 "You're no fun." Jack replies, flashing one of his film star grins. "It's good for them. Expands their horizons." He straightens his coat and heads for the lift, whistling.

 After a quick change into a suit- he doesn't always wear his uniform, though his younger self would probably wonder why on earth he was still wearing it after this long. Mind you, his younger self would probably question why he'd stayed in one place so long. He's beginning to get pretty attached to it, and it has the added attraction of being practical and making him look great. he'll decide when it's no longer a normality to wear it in public. the tendrils of the war are sticking around much longer than he expected. he'd known the end date of the war, of course, there's enough footage, but he hadn't previously checked all the details about conscription continuing. From his contacts in the military, it seems there's no real pressure to end it, with the ongoing communist-related uprisings in the far east. Just smaller scale.

 One of his regular haunts contains a slim young man with dark hair and intense eyes who watches him from the corner of a bar. definite potential there. Jack waves over the barman. "Send him a drink, will you?"

 "Anything specific?" The barman asks. "Didn't think he was your type, the last few've been blond. Two of them lasses."

 "Everyone's my type, and I believe in variety." Jack grins. "Whatever he's having."

 "On your own head be it." The barman says, shrugging and taking Jack's money. He pours a pint of best and puts it in front of the dark-haired man, nodding in Jack's direction. The young man taps it and smiles at Jack, raising what's left of his current pint.

 A few minutes and Jack eases his way through the not-quite crowd to his target's side, leaning on the bar next to him. "You new in town? Haven't seen you around."

 "By the accent, I'd expect you to be the one new in town." He replies. English accent, public school educated. "You're right, though. I'm only in town for a few days to see someone. Business. Take it you live here?"

 Jack nods. "Someone made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Not a bad place. Seen much of it?"

 "No, but then I don't expect I'll get the chance. I've got a busy few days planned, and tonight was pretty much my only chance for a breather before getting down to business." He replies.

 "Well, maybe I might be able to help you with that." Jack says. "What's your name?"

 "Ed. You?" he asks.

 "Jack." Jack says, using the slow, quiet smile, that tends to hook them in slowly but surely.

 "Well, Jack. Start as you mean to go on." Ed says, saluting him with his pint.

 As they drink and chat, Jack assesses the man he's intent on picking up tonight. early 20s, maybe even only about 20. Occasionally he seems much older, depending on which way he turns his head and the shadows cut across his face. Which could be a matter of genetics, but Jack thinks not - he's quite used to the different species and what experience does to someone. There's the older ones who look younger - the Doctor is an absolutely prime example of that - and younger ones who look older. Plenty of them around after a war. an entire generation, in fact. Ed seems to be flickering between the two, as there's no real weariness in his posture and manner but there is the occasional experience and old beyond his years tone and comment. Not necessarily military but definitely had fighting experience. For all he's softly spoken and mild in manner - though it's not like he hasn't seen plenty of people out to pick someone up be demure to attract a certain type - he's definitely sure of himself. And that's definitely always attractive. 

 Ed finishes his third pint and traces a line down the pint glass, eyes on the glass. "I was thinking of getting out of here."

 Jack nods. "Mind if I join you?"

 "Was hoping you might, you're decent company." Ed says, turning to look at him and grinning. Jack grins back, wide and closer to his usual bright one.

 They pick up their coats and leave. Jack catches the eye of the barman, who rolls his eyes. Jack smirks internally, he'll probably get the full 'I can't believe you sometimes' from him the next time he visits. Ed pulls him into the shadowed alley a couple of buildings on from the pub, grabs his lapels and proceeds to explore Jack's tonsils *very* thoroughly. Jack's seriously impressed. Not so self-effacing it seems. Ed pulls back. "You have to have some of the least subtle lines I've ever heard."

 Jack grins. "They worked."

 "I was trying not to choke on my drink at times." Ed replies, pushing at him lightly. "Anyway. He looks down the alley. "Here or my hotel?"

 Jack brings his hand up to cup the back of Ed's neck, pulling him back in for another kiss. "Nice as this alley is, I've got a place that has a fairly decent hot water supply and no nosy neighbours."

 "Twist my arm." Ed says.

 In the morning, Jack wakes up after a really quite spectacular shag to find himself alone. There's a washed up mug on the draining board. He reflects that if he had to use a razor, rather than being stuck as clean shaven for the rest of his so far immortal life, he'd probably find that used but cleaned up too. There's a note on the table. 'Dear Jack, sorry for leaving but I had a meeting to get to. You're quite a deep sleeper. ~Ed.' Jack grins. Well, at least he's polite. maybe he'll be lucky enough to run into him in the next couple of days.

 When Jack walks in through the gate the next morning, Ed is standing in the middle of the Hub, talking to Gibson. He doesn't get a chance to really react, since Gibson spots him and says "Harkness, over here." 

 Jack removes his coat and hat, putting them on the stand, and walks over. Ed doesn't betray a flicker of recognition. He now looks like a slightly more relaxed young man, and definitely about 20 rather than early 20s. But rather than mild in manner, this is someone who radiates competency. Clinical competency, with a side order of judging your every move. *Very* interesting. He's also pinging Jack's radar because he now resembles someone, on the tip of his tongue. Jack feels he'll have to investigate further.

 "New visitor, Gibson?" Jack asks, tilting his head at Ed, radiating polite interest. He is quite capable of doing that, no matter what people think. 

 Gibson gestures at Ed. "Harkness, our new liaison to the other services. It seems the Pevensie family is a rather singular family."

 "You only say that because you haven't met our other siblings." Ed says, sounding rather rueful, then sticking his hand out to shake. "Edmund Pevensie, MI6. Apologies for not introducing myself properly last night. I'm sure you can appreciate that it was rather different circumstances."

 "Group Captain Jack Harkness. Pleased to meet you." Jack flashes a grin, shaking his hand. "I believe it'll be a pleasure working with you, Mr. Pevensie."

 Susan walks in mid-handshake, report in hand, poised as ever. "Oh, there you are, Edmund, I wondered where you'd got to. Tell me you haven't started snooping around already." Then her eyes flick to Jack, looks at where their hands are joined, and she rolls her eyes. "Really, Edmund. I'd have expected it of other people we know, but -"

 Edmund Pevensie shrugs, and Jack doesn't know how he missed the resemblance, especially after he saw him in the office and saw his apparent professional mode. They didn't exchange names, but still. He's seen the pictures of Edmund before when they were researching Susan, especially Edmund since he was already in the secret service, and they always check for other organisations attempting to worm their way in. In photos there hadn't been much of a resemblance beyond the pale skin and dark hair. Now that they're together, the sibling resemblance is incredibly obvious. General air of competency, the clinical evaluation, careful blank expression. Good at changing their demeanour to fit the situation to hide their experience, aside from their general air of having seen and knowing far more than you could ever possibly know. According to his files, the Pevensie trait of being incredibly competent and efficient at killing is certainly present, though it states that he's not someone who ever loses at hand to hand, so better in that respect than his sister. It doesn't make any reference to him being a nearly supernaturally talented marksman and sniper the way Susan is, so clearly they went into different specialities. the thing to assess now would be how good he is at diplomacy and whether he can assume the air of total command, confidence and long-standing nobility the way Susan can.

 "I fancied evaluating his reputation for myself." Edmund says.

 "And how did I shape up?" Jack asks, caressing the back of his hand with his thumb.

 "Not bad." Edmund replies. "You could probably do with being a little less... showy."

 Gibson looks between them, then at Susan, cogs clearly whirling in his brain, then back at Jack and Edmund. "So you're telling me you two met last night."

 "Indeed." Susan says, folding her arms, long suffering expression on her face. "For given values of 'met'."

 Gibson groans. "Really? I'd have expected it of you, Harkness, but -"

 Edmund shrugs. "I'd heard of his reputation, from general word and from Susan, and I find that how someone acts when in a social situation without preconceived notions is quite an effective way of evaluating them."

 Susan gives him a look. "But you didn't have to actually shag him. It's not as though you had to butter him up or the security of the realm were at stake."

 Jack decides to be offended at that. "Hey, it is not actually a chore to shag me, thank you. I have glowing reports across the galaxy on that front. Some of them signed and witnessed."

 Edmund shrugs. "he was pleasant company and I decided on entertaining myself. I'm quite sure you can understand that as a reason to shag someone."

 Susan rolls her eyes, delicately. "There really is no accounting for taste. He's not even your type, personality aside."

 Jack looks at him with interest. "So what is your type, for future reference?"

 "Less bulky. The barman wasn't bad." Edmund shrugs. "But considering he wasn't looking, I didn't really think about trying."

 "Try him at New Year, he's normally receptive to offers then." Jack grins.

 Gibson looks pained. "Gentlemen, I would really rather not be having this conversation about your sex lives. Can we please turn the conversation back to its original purpose?"

 "Spoilsport." Jack grins.

 Later, when they're away from Gibson, Jack says to Susan "I have a question; how did you know I shagged your brother? it could've just been first attraction then and there."

 "I know my siblings all too well." Susan states.

 "And the other way around." Edmund adds. "It's fairly obvious when they've had sex, or at least when we're not in an ongoing relationship. So it's a simple matter of joining the dots."

 ---

Edmund is down from London to cross-check files and inquire into a case that happened during the war around an airbase. He purses his lips. "The problem is where they got in." Edmund says. "That could mean a different species than the one originally suspected, so that could overturn our assumptions completely." he traces a line on the blueprints of the airfield. "See, here and here - add any possibility teleporting..." He notes the Cardiff lot are eyeing him. "What?"

"You have an extremely sneaky brain, Pevensie." Gibson says. "Are you sure you never did breaking and entering as a hobby?"

"I'm sure my job description is spy." Edmund says, grinning a little at his skills being recognised. "It does tend to carry the connotations of illegal acts and not more than a little amount of burglary."

Susan looks amused. "Ignore them, Ed, and get on with dissecting the ways in."

There's a whistle from Myra, cutting through their work. "Sorry to interrupt the map love, but I'm getting reports of a slight disruption down the front of the quay. Could develop into a full-blown. Lots of yelling, if nothing else."

"Oh good lord..." Susan says, picking up her holster. "Edmund, did you need anything?"

"Depends, what's the reports on type of creature?"

"Argh argh it's big and aggressive." Myra says. "You know dockers, they couldn't describe anyone on sight if they tried."

"Right, in that case, sword and rifle. With a couple of short charges." Edmund says.

 "Sword." Gibson says flatly.

 "You never know." Edmund says. "Prepare for every eventuality."

 They come out of it relatively unscathed. turned out to be a stowaway who then turned on everyone when it started believing it'd been stiffed on its money, and then started eating a chemical shipment, high up to its eyeballs. and that species, when high, tends to lash out. Edmund beat it to a standstill, cutting at it until it hid in on itself, and Susan could finally get a clear shot.

 "So this fondness for medieval weaponry. Is it a family thing?" Jack asks as Edmund cleans off the sword carefully.

 "Has my sister been entering archery competitions again?" Edmund asks. "we've told her it's not fair to the other entrants." 

 "No, but just colour me curious. It's not normal practice for their majesty's more secretive servants to receive melee training." Jack says. He doesn't think he'll get too far, but it's one of those niggles he really wants to solve. Curiosity may kill the cat, but Jack Harkness just gets right up again.

 "I got chucked out of fencing at school after two lessons, if that helps." Edmund says, inspecting what may be a nick in the blade.

 "Why am I thinking that's because of your reported penchant for taking down opponents hard and fast, and not because of incompetency?"

 "You're having such fun gathering data and clues, I wouldn't want to stop you." Edmund says, then flashes a grin.

 ----

Further observation: Edmund is more likely to throw himself into physical acts and get himself dirty, along with planning. It's bringing up an interesting picture; the elder sister is the diplomat, negotiator and sniper, and the younger brother is... well, spy is a good label. Cross between a field agent and one who's used to directing operations, if the occasional automatic taking the lead from the reports they get from London are correct, where he'll snap out commands in the field and overrule his superiors during planning without thinking about it if he thinks it can be done better, cost lives or break cover. Most of the time he's apparently more subtle about ignoring orders, his file is full of those. It's the occasional assumption of control that really marks him out. Apparently it wouldn't be nearly so irritating if he wasn't so bloody good at it, and so obviously young. Jack's yet to see Edmund assume Susan's mantle of nobility and superiority, but there's not really been any occasions for that, given what the usual operations he joins in with comprise.


	3. Stefan

"So who is this I'm supposed to be meeting?" Edmund asks, leaning against the filing cabinet.

 "Stefan Dobrev. He's in the weird happenings section of the Bulgarian Secret Service. Double agent, possibly a little unhinged." Rollins says, pulling out a file and waving it in Pevensie's direction. Edmund steps forward and takes it, idly leafing through it.

 Edmund raises an eyebrow as he goes through the description of some of the missions and circumstances the agent has undertaken. "A little unhinged? Going by this, I'd say that was the understatement of the year."

 Rollins steeples his fingers. "The problem is that we're never quite sure if he's unhinged or extremely calculating. There are several who would describe you as unhinged, Pevensie. especially if they've seen you in a fight."

 Edmund shrugs. "There is a difference between unnecessary risks and having enough experience to judge precisely what you can do when it comes to any task, I find. I merely have a lot of experience in fights."

 "Yes, and no-one can understand where you got it from. That's why everyone's a bit worried about you, Pevensie." Rollins says mildly.

 "I find that fanatics can be described as unhinged and extremely calculating at the same time." Edmund observes. "He might fall into that." he runs his finger down a page. "is there a reason he became a double agent?"

 "Something about the fact that he believes Communism to be stifling his country but thinks he works better from within the system." Rollins says. "You might want to dig up Torchwood's files on him too, since he's in weird happenings. They may have further information that'll help."

 Edmund raises his eyebrow again. "Are you actually encouraging the sharing of information between departments? Surely not."

 "Very funny, Pevensie." Rollins says. "Just... try not to get up to any of your more outlandish tricks out there. And try not to react too much to any of his jibes, he likes to put people off guard."

 "You do remember I work with Harkness, don't you?" Edmund asks. "Harkness practically lives to put people off guard."

 Rollins picks up his tea, eyeing the dregs at the bottom. "somewhat of a difference. Harkness flirts with people to get a reaction or runs roughshod when he simply cannot be bothered, it's the military in him. Rather glad I never served with him wherever he got his experience, I suspect it was rather horrific. It's not always malicious whatever he does, anyway, unless you're one of the more set in their ways grey men of Whitehall. Our man in Bulgaria, on the other hand, likes to make people unsettled from the moment they walk into the room. Seems to be the way he prefers to operate."

 "Well, at least it'll be interesting." Edmund observes.

 Edmund rings Torchwood Cardiff, relaying the information he's got on his new contact. "Does it ring any bells? I know your archives are fairly extensive."

 Powell makes a humming noise, indicating thought, before answering. "Not that I'm aware of. sadly we're not all that clued up on overseas agents unless they're directly involved in cases that we've got an interest in. if he's kept to the continent, there's very little chance. Unless Jack's met him, which is entirely possible."

 "By which you mean I'll get a rating on how fuckable he was or a two-word assessment on his danger level." Edmund says dryly. "Thanks anyway. I'll make my own assessment."

 ---

 Edmund gets off the train, checks his luggage into his hotel and goes in search of the bar he's supposed to be meeting his contact in. Having pin pointed it, he checks the surrounding area thoroughly to ensure he knows all the possible getaway points.

 He sends a few telegrams off to head office to notify them that he's checked in and that nothing of interest has happened on the train or since he got to the room, unpacks and gets a coffee and a bowl of stew in a small street café, watching life go by and getting a mental picture of the mood of the place. the coffee is truly vile, he'll give it that. But more truly vile in the so strong it's nearly beyond bitter sense, not the acquired chicory coffee or half made of old grounds scraped from the bottom of the floor taste. Peter mostly grumbles about the fact that all the tea they get where he's posted isn't nearly strong enough, and tastes far too much like the tea you used to get at their parents' in Finchley before the war. Susan saw that letter and made noises about his unrefined palate. Edmund is more of the opinion that Peter's tastes whilst on campaign have simply been ruined by association; he expects certain things at war, and it mostly involves food being half burnt. as long as it's hot, strongly flavoured and doesn't involve boiling up your boots or grass, his older brother's happy. The stew is vaguely reasonable, and he's had worse in England The food on the train hadn't been that good, but at least it had flavour and texture, which is more than he'd have got on British Rail. However, in the interests of fairness, almost anything would be better than the food available on British Rail. Boiling up old shoe leather might be considered a step up.

 At seven o'clock, he goes back to the bar to wait for his contact. There's no-one that even remotely matches the description of Dobrev in the bar. The photo of Dobrev showed a young man, apparently early twenties but with mentions around the area for a good few years. No-one's quite sure if he started young or is simply older than he appears, since there's little information on where he's from, aside from 'Bulgarian. apparently the southern part of the country'. when Edmund queried this, it was pointed out that the same could be said of Edmund, since he gives off the impression of being far too experienced for his age and actual time served. Edmund took that moment to point out that his past and age was extremely well documented, and his siblings would be all too glad to provide the evidence. But anyway. The photo was of a very good-looking young man, verging on the pretty, with dark curly hair and a very good bone structure, notes detailing olive skin and deceptive strength for his slim build. the only one under the age of thirty-five currently in this bar is the barman, who's tall and rather corpulent. With not so much olive skin as 'dipped in pure tannin', and a hairline that could only be described as receding by the most charitable of men. Those less tactful would use the phrase 'sprinting for the back of his head'.

 Edmund finds himself a table that allows him to see the front door and a reflection of the back door in the mirror, orders a glass of whatever's on tap, and pulls his book out of his pocket. If nothing else, he can catch up on a bit of reading.

 It's about ten past when Dobrev saunters through the front door. Aside from matching the photo and description, it really can't be anyone else. The man practically reeks of being out of place. he's dressed quite normally for his surroundings - same sober clothing as everyone else, and in a photo of the bar, wouldn't stand out aside from being very good-looking. The other inhabitants of the bar glance in his direction uneasily, then glance away, not sure what it is they've felt, since Dobrev isn't obviously a gangster. He simply has presence. Edmund's quite aware that he and his siblings have presence when they choose, and Harkness couldn't be quiet if he tried, there's rumours he would walk around with a brass band if he could. Dobrev fills the room and puts your hackles up, part magnetism and part knowing this person is dangerous and you should make yourself scarce right now because something is coming, and you're not sure why; it's a gut feeling, but in this day and age unless someone's obviously in a position of power or has their gun out, the bar patrons mostly only shift in their seats and try to bury themselves in their drinks. Though Edmund is quite sure at least one of them'll leave soon enough.

 Edmund is struck by the memory of someone else who used to do this, and now the memory's there, he can't help but see the resemblance. He tells himself that the olive skin and bone structure are common throughout this end of the Mediterranean, and he's just desperate to see something that isn't there. Because any resemblance lets him keep the memory fresh. Edmund shakes his head inwardly, telling himself firmly that it's completely lost to him and he knows it. Dwelling on it will just put him into a funk, as bad as his brother went into after they got back the first time. Though without the self destructive tendencies and willingness to chuck himself into fights he had no hope of winning. Better to concentrate on the here and now.

 Dobrev does an idle-seeming neck crick that allows him to see most of the room without it being too obvious, then walks to the bar and orders a shot of vodka, which he carries to Edmund's table, sliding into a seat opposite. The room quietens very slightly, the patrons slightly less tense now that his focus is a little more honed. Edmund looks up in a slightly perplexed fashion, the picture of a tourist or businessman trying to have a quiet drink and interrupted for a reason he can't comprehend. "May I help you?"

 "Quite probably." Dobrev says. "I presume you're here to meet someone."

 Edmund raises an eyebrow and lets his book tilt forward, listing now that his attention is diverted. "And what gives you that impression?"

 "You could be sitting in a far better bar than this one if you just wanted a quiet drink." Dobrev points out. He has a very good point. The bar in question is hardly salubrious, and certainly nowhere near as good as a westerner could afford. Even on the ridiculous money restrictions placed on travellers. He leans back in his chair and knocks back half his drink. "The question is who you're here to meet."

 Edmund gives him a steady look. "And the chance that I would be at all interested in your opinion or company?"

 Dobrev smiles slowly, very assured of himself. But then why wouldn't he be when he can provoke that sort of reaction in people. The question is what happens when one day he makes the wrong sort of person tense up; Edmund's met plenty of people whose reaction to discomfort is to reach for the nearest weapon. Then it becomes a matter of how well Dobrev can manage that mood to his advantage. It's entirely probable that a large part of the reason his file refers to him as unhinged. But then, as Edmund himself has pointed out many a time, his own file is littered with notes from people who refuse to believe that he can quite comfortably handle a larger number of people in a fight than most people would expect. "The fact that you haven't told me to bugger off."

 "I might simply be too polite." Edmund retaliates. "Haven't you heard about the English? too polite for our own good, and all too willing to expect others to play by our rules. Didn't serve us too well when co-operating with the yanks."

 "Yes, but your logic there is faulty." Dobrev gestures in the air with his glass, the universal gesture of 'would like another'. he puts the glass back on the table. "You'd have stayed polite, not confronted me about it. So who is it you're intending to meet, reading a book in this little bar?"

 "Someone probably far more interesting than you." Edmund replies, settling back in his chair.

 "Oh, there's no-one more interesting than me when I choose." Dobrev says, resting his hand on the table, and... tapping restlessly at the table. In Morse . Specifically, 'try to keep up'. Edmund attempts not to chuckle at that. The arrogance of the man is impressive. If it wasn't for the fact that they're both more engaged in the banter than the end goal...

 Edmund sighs, putting the book down. He really does seem to attract lunatics. Still, it's not as though he hasn't been handling them since he was a toddler, and he might as well cut to the chase for appearances. "What do you want, precisely?"

 "A conversation will do. I require entertainment." Dobrev replies, smug expression in place now he's got Edmund's attention, and reaching blindly for the top-up the waiter gives him, taking a sip from the new glass. Still, he could at least be a little less blatant.

 "And what will I have to do to entertain you?" Edmund asks, attempting to look more put-upon but picking up his own drink and sipping from it. 

 "I'll tell you when I get bored." Dobrev says.

 Edmund merely shakes his head. It's not as though he's really got anything to do tonight aside from read the books he's brought, and sussing out Dobrev - or at least the way his persona works when he's taking the measure of someone, as well as how he behaves in public - has to be done sooner or later, considering he's to be a new contact for the man. And so sue Edmund, Dobrev may enjoy talking in obscure half metaphors but at least they're diverting. They may even be excessively diverting. He's got the rest of the evening to find that out. 

 During the course of the evening, they manage to ramble through several topics, but interestingly, never manage to convey their opinion on any; they've both got experience in playing this sort of game. Dobrev being the type to be maddening for the sake of it, and Edmund being the type who likes to throw up stone walls and not offer an opinion unless he has to, the better to draw his opponent out. 

 It gets to around ten o'clock, the numbers in the bar having dropped off to those who'll probably stay for as long as they can, not looking forward to home. Dobrev knocks back his latest shot of vodka. Judging by his behaviour and lack of reaction to the quite strong drink they serve in here, Edmund is inclined to think he's got the constitution of a mule, and a liver made of rock, the way he's putting it back. Edmund tried some on being offered it at one stage, and although it's not nearly at the level of dissolving metal spoons and putting hair on your chest like some of the rot-gut he's had, it's strong enough for the unwary and those who mostly stick to beer. Even some of the men in the more down at heel pubs he's found that put alcohol away like it was water would be impressed at Dobrev's consumption. He cocks his head thoughtfully at Edmund and smiles lazily in a way that would tempt many lesser men than Edmund. "I have information back at my room that you might be interested in. Would you care to take a walk with me?"

 Edmund eyes him, thumbing his glass for something to do. "I believe that is the least subtle invitation to bed I've heard since someone used 'would you like to see my etchings?' on me once in Paris."

 Dobrev smirks. "The important question is whether it worked, not its subtlety."

 "mmm. True." Edmund replies, turning his glass an extra fraction of an inch.

 "So did it work?" Dobrev asks.

 "The etchings line? Well, if he hadn't fallen off the bar two seconds later, it might have." Edmund pauses, attempting not visibly wince at the memory of the smell. "Or had the worst breath known to man. It smelled like something had died under his tongue. I swear, he could have registered it as a weapon on behalf of the Allies. The barman said he was contemplating pulling out his gas mask from under the bar."

 Dobrev chuckles. "Bad breath only really matters if you can still smell it."

 "Perhaps. I'm rather fond of my sense of smell, however, and I prefer not having to wear a clothes peg on my nose whilst having sex." Edmund says dryly. "It tend to interfere if you're not into that sort of thing, as a rule."

 Dobrev cocks his head again. "Never underestimate desperation, in my experience."

 Edmund snorts. "Fortunately, I'm not that desperate."

 Dobrev grins, eyeing him up and down in an even less subtle manner than before. Blind men could understand his intent. "No, I can't imagine you are. However, you haven't answered. Would you respond favourably?"

 "Would I respond favourably to what?" Edmund asks, slightly distracted by being eyed up as though Dobrev could imagine exactly what was under his clothing, liked what he saw and could draw a very detailed picture of it. and then give a witness statement. "The etchings line?"

 Dobrev reaches out his hand and traces a line along the lip of the glass Edmund's playing with. "To whether you would like to check the information I offered to show you." His fingers butt up against Edmund's and linger.

 Edmund doesn't move his hand away, which almost certainly gives away his ultimate reaction and where this evening's going to end up. Well. Not so much the 'almost'. "Are you sure that's wise? I mean, I only just met you. I could be anyone."

 "I'd say we've exhausted all the possibilities sitting in this bar and talking has provided us with, and any tasks you or I were hoping to achieve this evening have been completed." Dobrev says, smiling gently and shifting his fingers minutely along Edmund's skin. "Besides, the wisdom of a choice is neither here nor there after a certain point. The decision is whether to let go and give in to the inevitable."

 Edmund tries not to swallow, all too aware of the relatively small patch of skin on his hand where the tips of Dobrev's fingers are resting. It now seems incredibly sensitive. And doesn't that statement sound familiar. The person he'd successfully *not* thought about all evening lived by that philosophy. He forces his voice to stay level and not give him away. He counts himself lucky that Dobrev's not touching any of his pulse points, because he's quite sure his pulse has sped up in the last few seconds. "That presumes you consider it inevitable. Surely the fact that there's a decision to be made precludes inevitability?"

 "The decision to be made is whether you give in sooner or you give in later." Dobrev says.

 "You sound terribly sure of yourself." Edmund says. He tilts his head, smiling slightly, attempting to take some of the pressure off that he can feel gathering. "You could be attempting to seduce me for nefarious purposes."

 "Very nefarious." Dobrev agrees. "I find you attractive and there really is nothing more nefarious. What other reasons could I have?"

 "Oh, information. That's the usual one people seem to seduce others for if money isn't involved." Edmund points out. He's quite aware that it really is inevitable, barring the police bursting in and dragging everyone out, and maybe even then it would only postpone it, but some control would be nice. He'd say for his ego, but then Edmund always prided himself on not having much of one unless it involved silly bets with his siblings. Self-respect, maybe.

 Dobrev smirks, moving his fingers back and forth in tiny movements, catching at the hairs on Edmund's hand. it's verging on torture at this stage. "Do you really think I'm seducing you for information?" he turns a tiny circle on Edmund's hand. Very, very tiny. Minute. "Does it count as seducing you for information if neither of us have anything to tell?"

 "Well, there's always tomorrow's headlines." Edmund says, pulling his hand back and putting the glass down. He picks up the book that had long since been discarded in favour of maddening verbal sparring, putting it in his pocket, standing and putting his hat on.

 Dobrev doesn't get up, leaning back in his chair. "Oh? And how might you lay your hands on those? I didn't take you for a journalist."

 Edmund adjusts the brim of his hat, then shifts his shoulders a little so as to settle the line of his jacket. "I could get to the morning paper before you do." With that, he turns and walks to the bar to settle up his bill. behind him, Dobrev starts laughing. Edmund grins at getting the last word. As always, it's incredibly satisfying. As for what comes after... well, that's rather a foregone conclusion.

 ----

Dobrev presses Edmund up against the back of the door to his room. From what Edmund's seen of it, it's a quite reasonable, clean flat. Admittedly it was just a glimpse, since Dobrev pushed him up against the door rather quickly. They left the bar very quickly, Edmund following Dobrev the few blocks to his building, taking the stairs at double time in their rush to get their hands on each other, not wanting to take the risk of touching in case they ended up making a scene in the middle of the street or stairwell. it might be dark but Edmund has a horrible suspicion that it would end up as in flagrante very, very quickly. Normally he'd have made an attempt to get a better look and check exit points and potential weapons, but for once, Edmund really has no problem with being distracted from taking in his surroundings, as Dobrev's mouth on his neck is currently doing its best to shut down all rational thought.

 Dobrev noses the side of his neck as he slides his hands up Edmund's sides, under his jacket, palms warm through the shirt, breath warm and damp as he murmurs "Stop thinking. It doesn't suit you."

 Edmund hisses as Dobrev scrapes his teeth along Edmund's neck. "And here I thought you liked me for my conversation skills, not just my looks." He says, getting his hands on Dobrev's arse.

 "I lied." Dobrev says. "Or I was possibly deluded. Your brains are getting in the way." He presses his leg between Edmund's and does some sort of hip shimmy that makes it feel like his stomach's bottomed out. "Let go."

 Edmund groans, swallows, and tangles a hand in the back of Dobrev's hair to pull his head back, just enough so that he can see his expression. "Before we go any further, I just need to check that you've got the right person."

 Dobrev chuckles, tilting Edmund's chin up. "You're still thinking, Edmund. I told you to stop it."

 "It's a character flaw." Edmund says, squeezing Dobrev's arse. "The question now is how much you'll have to do to stop me thinking."

 Dobrev smirks "I have very detailed plans. Now shush." He says, leaning forward to kiss him.

 Edmund idly traces a hand up Dobrev's chest as he comes back to himself, head propped on one elbow and feet still tangled with Dobrev's, sheets kicked to one side. Dobrev's watching him, rubbing their feet together lazily. He murmurs "You're thinking again, Edmund."

 "Guilty as charged. You clearly didn't do it properly." Edmund says, following a bead of sweat down through Dobrev's sparse chest hair.

 "Mmm. Clearly I'll have to put more effort into it." He wraps an arm around Edmund's waist, pulling him on top and shifting so they're chest to chest before kissing him. Not particularly deeply, but it's long and absorbing, Edmund's hands braced on his chest and Dobrev running long strokes up his sides. 

 "So, do you bed all your contacts?" Edmund asks as they come up for air.

 Dobrev raises an eyebrow. "It all depends. Sometimes it's because they're attractive, and sometimes it's because they need their world-view confounded. I rarely need to do it for information as you implied, since it's too easy. Easy gets to be boring quite quickly. Besides, I'm not all that fond of wasting time in bed trying to get information out of someone. It rarely tends to be valuable or useful information." He combs a hand through Edmund's hair, pushing it back from where it's fallen onto his forehead, heavy with sweat and brylcreem. "As I'm sure you aware."

 "Oh, it has its uses." Edmund says. "Sometimes just to soften them up." He kisses Dobrev again, his hands moving to his jaw and shoulder, thumbs rubbing circles into Dobrev's skin. 

 "The problem was that you refused to be easy and took convincing." Dobrev complains, palming long lines down Edmund's back and bum.

 Edmund snorts, "I'd have thought falling into bed with you in all of two minutes once you got around to asking would be construed as easy in most peoples' books." 

 Dobrev gives him a long look, clearly not impressed, before nipping his jaw. "The problem is that you were intriguing enough that it took me so long to ask. Normally you'd have been on your back in this bed about fifteen minutes after we'd met, but talking was too much fun." He nips a line back up Edmund's jaw, changing the angle of his hands so he can run his nails down Edmund's back, grinning against Edmund's ear as it gets him to shiver, before continuing "There are different definitions of easy. I suspect very few of your acquaintances would describe you as that." He kisses him again, long and involved, one hand leaving Edmund's back to bury itself in his hair again, rubbing circles against his scalp and behind his ears.

 Edmund smiles against his mouth "True, but then I don't tend to bed most of them."

\----

 The second trip to Bulgaria with Dobrev as his contact, Edmund deposits his luggage, checks for followers - his cover is an academic, specifically Thracian artefacts and archaeology, but it can't hurt to check. There are papers at the drop he'll be picking up just in case on his return. It never hurts to be over prepared. This time the meeting point is a museum, where Dobrev has a cover as an assistant lecturer and guide. He's seen odder.

 Getting there, he hears the familiar voice before he sees the man as he approaches the corner of one of the corridors in the sculpture section. "The problem so many western scholars forget is that so much comes from Thrace, yet is attributed to Greece." There's a definite sneer of the proud and quite possibly the academic snob. It'll be interesting to see if his real feelings are bleeding into this lecture, or if it's merely part of the cover. "Phillip of Macedon, father to the famed Alexander the Great, ruled Macedonia. Macedonia was not just part of northern Greece and Macedonia as we know it, our neighbours. Macedonia in those days also held Thrace. We were the barbarians on the fringes, civilised enough to be permitted to trade with the empires of Greece and Rome, outlasting Greece when that fell to Rome, but stayed our own people, with our own customs and religion. You might compare well with the Soviet Republic as it now stands and the West, ever gnawing at our edges and forgetting that we have a civilisation all our own, that does very well without their rises and falls. How many here have heard of the Greek god of wine, Dionysus, or to give him his Roman name, Bacchus?" There's a chorus of voices on the edge of breaking with puberty, and their female counterparts., "Very good. I see they teach you something in schools these days. Bacchus was said to come from many places, but the main source was Thrace, co-opted into the Greek pantheon and given a silly origin to tie him to Zeus. The god of wine, of wildness, of inspiration, of keeping the fatted and complacent on edge, his followers feared for their destructive power, the women who would not simply stay home and submit to their fat husbands who believed that they should not go out to work, to watch as the rich and corrupt oligarchs ran their country. The title for Bacchus was 'the god who comes'. Think on that."

 Edmund rounds the corner, and standing in front of a bunch of schoolchildren is Dobrev, declaiming. In this guise he's still got the presence to put the hairs on the back of your neck up, it's just tamped down. You're uneasy but you can't look away. It's quite an impressive talent. And no-one necessarily feels comfortable in a museum, after all. Dobrev sees him and raises an eyebrow in acknowledgement, before finishing up his speech and waving the children off to find lists of things their teachers have given them. He steps forward, putting out his hand. "Pleased to see you. you even appear to be on time."

 "Well, the trains do seem to work." Edmund says. "How are you?"

 "Coping, but dealing with schoolchildren is not the worst of my job." Dobrev says, eyeing Edmund with a curl to his mouth that feels nearly as filthy as some of the grins he got last time he met with Dobrev. Jack Harkness would be impressed at how much Dobrev can convey with a twitch of the mouth.

 Edmund tries to ignore it. Or at least simply put it aside and accept that it's a standard part of dealing with the agent. "Interesting twist on the mythology as propaganda."

 Dobrev inclines his head. "I would examine your own archaeologists and academics take on the entirety of human history and see how much of it is geared to the notion of empire and supporting the status quo before attempting to cast down the way we see it. For instance, how would you see the Roman Empire if you were from America, the conquering heroes who would meddle in the affairs of others and extend their civilisation? Your British may teach it but you always teach from the point of view of the oppressed, the island on the edge of the world that sheltered the Gauls from the continent. You delight much more in your tales of Boadicea and her failed uprising, than you do in their civilising effects of plumbing, always leaving out the fact that she was first burned for getting too close to the Romans. Consider the relish you feel that they had to build walls to control the natives, and yours was one of the border countries where they had to station several legions. You and Germany, the northern lawless borders. And every school child of your country is taught the date they left." He grins. "Now imagine how the Italians teach it."

 Edmund eyes him. "You have a point. So how much of this stuff did you know already?"

 "The story of Thrace and her people was always a passion of mine. As was the notion of the outsider and the need to do away with the stultifying stone walls of complacent, bucolic so-called civilisation. The Ancient Greeks were too set in their ways and proud of the prison and mausoleum they called civilisation." His grin is distinctly feral this time. "Join me in my office. It's a better place for debate."

 Edmund follows him down a corridor and up a staircase, Dobrev stopping at a shadowed alcove, tilting his head, listening for something. Edmund tenses, readying for possible action. Dobrev shakes his head, pushing Edmund into the alcove, out of sight, even on this relatively deserted stairwell, and... kissing him. Edmund is only surprised for a fraction of a second, before the reality and rather insistent pressure of Dobrev's lips get a reflex out of him. Which appears to be to kiss back, hands coming up to grip Stefan's shoulders, and after a bit deepen the kiss. He can feel Stefan grin into the kiss, even as his hands aren't shifting from where they're lightly pressing on Edmund's chest through his jacket, the leverage point he used to shove Edmund into this alcove.

 Edmund pulls back from the kiss, tilting his head back to try to get a look at Dobrev from such a close range. After a few seconds' contemplation, during which he decides there really can't be any other explanation for pretending to hear something to give Dobrev the excuse to push him into this alcove to lessen even further the likelihood of them being seen than Dobrev simply wanted to kiss him, he says "You're presuming an awful lot." 

 Dobrev steps back, tweaking the lapels of Edmund's jacket to straighten them slightly, then smooths his own shoulders out. "I'm merely pointing out that the offer is on the table."

 "You could've just said." Edmund says, pushing him back into the stairwell and up the stairs ahead of him, because he really doesn't trust Dobrev not to grope him as they're going up at this rate.

 Dobrev turns back to look at him. Of course he's grinning. It's nearly a default expression on him. "It might be misconstrued and then where would we be? Language is a very difficult thing, sometimes."

 "Whereas kissing someone without warning is completely acceptable." Edmund says dryly.

 "Oh, you had plenty of warning." And there's the slightly feral curl of lip that would make a lesser man or woman flush. Fortunately, Edmund has plenty of experience with that kind of tone.

 "So what precisely is on offer? You're not honestly thinking it might sway me or soften me up for any mad plans you might have." Edmund asks.

 Dobrev stops when they reach the landing. "I wouldn't be interested if I thought you might be swayed. I thought you'd taken the measure of me better." he sounds slightly disgusted, which is something Edmund can definitely work with.

 "But you know as well as I that motivations and missions can change from meeting to meeting." Edmund points out.

 Dobrev reaches out and trails a finger along Edmund's jaw. "The minute I think you can be swayed, I'll stop being interested. Trust in that."

 Edmund grins. "We're spies. You know perfectly well we don't trust easily."

 Dobrev opens the door to his office here, which is mostly piled high with boxes of what Edmund finds out later are other people's papers. he inherited this office and seems to keep anything to do with Thracian culture in his head, which speaks of a very impressive memory. "Then don't for now." He pushes a chair out of the way, pulling a draw open and pulling out an honest to god glass ball, like you'd see at a fair in front of a fortune teller.

 Edmund keeps his hands safely in his pockets. he's seen enough, compounded by his visits to Torchwood, to know when something looks volatile. Or at least has volatile intent. He never really had any sense for magic beyond changes in pressure when power was brought to bear, like you get before a thunderstorm, like most people, but that indicates... pressure. "Where did you get that?"

 Dobrev sets it on the desk. it doesn't roll, so either it's incredibly balanced or it's got a flattened bottom. "Around. It's quite old, but has little to go wrong with it. It's picked up enough energy and influence over time to function as well as anything spelled or created. They used to use it as a focus."

 "When we say 'quite', precisely how old?" Edmund asks cautiously, keeping his distance until he's seen precisely how to use it.

 "About a thousand?" Dobrev speculates. "It's not solid, just very well preserved. the magic and energy it's absorbed helps." He licks his finger and rubs it on the side. "Sadly, the magic doesn't mean it cleans itself."

 "So what do you use it for?" Edmund asks. He's not quite sure what he'd like the response to be, since magic tends to make him a little uneasy if it's not a spell, or a person. Dobrev is obviously quite comfortable with it.

 "A focus. far seeing. Like a film camera, or a radio." Dobrev says, then frowns. "having to explain it in terms of modern technology can really be very limiting. Think of it as a crystal ball since that's what it basically is. You just need to concentrate. Sometimes it shows you what you're looking for, sometimes it shows you things you need to be alerted to." he pauses, holding his hands over it. "The problem we've had recently is that it's constantly showing this." the reflection coming off the ball in the dim late morning light that's coming through the windows warps, shimmering like a heat haze, before it clears and a dripping cave shows in the glass.

 "I'm presuming there's something that requires checking." Edmund says. "In a cave. Which could be anywhere. Caves do have a tendency to look rather similar."

 "Wait a moment." Dobrev says. The image flickers a little, turning, as though it was indeed a camera. And on the floor of the cave is a deer, throat cut out, but it's staring right at them, eyes blinking. The image fuzzes again, showing a human. Then a mouse, then a wolf. Always throat cut and eyes blinking.

 "So what do you think it is?" Edmund asks.

 "Some sort of shape-shifter, I suspect. The problem is whether it's simply an after image or what's happening right now. And it could be a distress call or a trap." Dobrev looks up and grins. "Either way, would you like to investigate?"

 Edmund raises an eyebrow. "How do we know where to even start looking?"

 "Wait a few seconds, the image moves -" Dobrev holds his finger up for silence, then points as the image changes. "There." It's an image of a cave again. Edmund fails to see the difference.

 "Explain." Edmund says. "I'm just seeing a cave."

 "Look closer. It's partially showing the cave mouth." he brings his hands over the ball, and the image zooms in on a rock formation and ... a signpost.

 Edmund makes an impressed noise. "It really is making me think trap."

 Dobrev grins again, gleeful. Definitely a man who's got the scent. "But what a fascinating trap."

 ----

 Edmund never does use a hotel or similar when he's in Bulgaria after his first visit, always staying at Stefan's flat. At least they've got the cover of academia, and the constraints that puts on the purse. Never even mind that stupid restriction of only being able to take a small amount of money overseas that affects those without foresight. and by flat he normally means bed. Dobrev and him simply click, for all that Dobrev lives to infuriate and bamboozle him. and it's not as though he's hard on the eye or it's exactly a chore to share his bed.

 Edmund watches Dobrev twist a girl they need information from around his little finger. "does everyone fall at your feet like that?" she was flustered, a little scared and affected by the general scary presence Dobrev emits, but utterly entranced and couldn't look away the minute Dobrev set his sights on her, like a small bird fixed by a cat.

 "Almost everyone." Dobrev smirks.

 "All right, name two people it hasn't worked on." Edmund says.

 "You." Dobrev says.

 "I stayed talking to you from the minute you sat down, stayed the entire evening and then fell into bed with you." Edmund points out. "Your logic is fallible."

 "Yes, but several times you considered leaving and just giving me a note to meet you tomorrow where we were supposed to after making contact. You didn't have to shag me, or stay the entire evening talking." Dobrev points out. "most people wouldn't even have considered leaving."

 "So I'm a bit more difficult." Edmund says. "That hardly proves anything."

 "It's still more than most people." Dobrev says, pulling his gun out of its holster. "Now get ready to kick the window in."

 Then there's the point Edmund realises he really is in over his head. He actually looks forward to Eastern Europe missions because it means he gets to see Dobrev. And by that point, he finds himself referring to him as Stefan in his own head. Not Dobrev. And that really embarrassing time he'd been wanking to a spectacularly filthy fantasy of Hutch after seeing him perform in a club in Piccadilly, and between one breath and another, the image had changed to Stefan. the skin colour change had been startling enough. It's a little ... annoying, to say the least. He's not supposed to have favourites. favourites are a weakness that can be used against you in the world Edmund operates in now, especially by the favourite themselves. Considering Dobrev could, if he didn't find it spectacularly boring, attempt to lead him around by his dick. Edmund's had lovers who tried to do that to him, and it's just irritating. It's not all alliances by blood and marriage in this world. 

 -----

 Edmund's catching up on a book he's been reading in the corner of the Hub , mug of tea in one hand. it's an overblown detective novel with a supernatural bent set in the 1930s, one of the Melody Malone series by Amelia Williams, starring a female detective who likes a healthy sex life, her gun, and a husband she adores but who's always off travelling. Lucy adores them, the book's hers, the well-thumbed stack sitting on the shelf in the flat she shares with Susan, with the occasional copy finding its way into the Hub. She informs him that the husband shows up in 'The Angels Take Manhattan', a tale with a rather disturbing plot device of statues that move when you're not looking. he's apparently a rather fuddy-duddy but sweet archaeology professor. He's got a suspicion that the author may be British, or at least have spent enough time over here that the occasional word slips past the editor. He's caught at least one 'shagging' and a 'trousers' in this book alone. Flicking to the note, the series is dedicated to her daughter and husband. 

 Reading on, he gets to a scene where Malone is arguing with a rather infuriating client she'll probably end up having sex with, and snorts, letting the book fall forward as he takes a sip of his tea. Because that doesn't remind him of anyone at all. Or his own predicament. it really is rather exasperating. Why he has to be attracted to tossers is beyond him.

 Lucy and Jack come up from downstairs, where he's been demonstrating precisely what he did to the body on the slab to get it that way. Lucy, by the sound of it, was not impressed. She spots Edmund on the sofa and says cheerily "they really are addictive, aren't they?"

 "What, the biscuits?" Jack asks.

 "The detective series he's reading." She pauses, narrowing her eyes. "Or not reading at this moment." She walks over and pulls the book out of his hand. "So, who're you shagging?"

 Edmund blinks. "Where did that come from?"

 Lucy merely raises her eyebrow and says as though it solves everything "Edmund, you're staring off into space."

 "And?" Edmund asks, giving her a disbelieving look.

 "The only time you stare off into space like that is when you're in a fairly involved relationship." Lucy says. Edmund refuses to answer to that. Despite how close to the bone she's scraping. he really wishes his siblings didn't know him so well, and that Lucy didn't delight in making public her rather shrewd observations. 

 "Involved?" Jack asks, interested. And now Harkness' interest has been piqued. Wonderful.

 Lucy translates. "There may be tentative feelings and a sense of attachment but Edmund refuses to admit such things, as it might be used against him -"

 Edmund cuts her off, providing "Normally by *you*. And you wonder why I like to keep my cards rather close to my chest."

 Lucy pokes him. "And you're being conflicted about your loyalties and whether it's getting that little bit too serious. This just gets more interesting. the last time I saw you like this was when your relationship with *him* started to get properly going."

 "Him?" Jack asks. "We don't even refer to the old boyfriend by name?"

 "No, because it ended rather abruptly and there's no chance of seeing him ever again. I do have a little bit of tact, despite what some people think." Lucy says.

 "It's well hidden." Edmund says. "It's all right, Lu, really."

 "Still." She says. "he's not something we're discussing unless you bring it up."

 "War?" Jack asks softly when Lucy's gone to get some files from Powell.

 "During it. We all did. We lost... rather a lot of people. It's just that a few hurt more than most." Edmund says wistfully. "Still hurts."

 "I know how that feels. Lost plenty myself." Jack sits on the couch next to him. Then grins. "So is your sister right about you getting involved with someone? Thought you spies tried to keep out of emotional entanglements to avoid someone using it against you. More than your sister teasing you."

 "I've been shagging someone, that's true." Edmund says non-committally. "I highly doubt it's going to get to the stage that Lucy appears to think it will. She's always been a bit of a romantic, which you wouldn't think to look at her."

 Jack gives him a disbelieving look. "Your sister, a romantic? This wouldn't be the Lucy Pevensie who's been known to go to the cinema to see the romantic comedies and great romances twice a week, would it?"

 "We try to convince ourselves that she has a twin." Edmund groans.

 -----

 "You aren't a double agent, are you?" Edmund asks, sipping at his coffee.

 Dobrev looks amused. "What makes you think that? And what makes you so sure, Pevensie?"

 "You've a cause, but you're not particularly bothered about Communism or Capitalism. They're both useful, but for now you prefer your homeland. I'd say you're playing both sides just to get the job done." Edmund says, giving him an amused look right back.

 "Someone is very sure of themselves." Dobrev says. "And what if I were?"

 "Nothing wrong with it." Edmund replies. "I'd say it was quite efficient, actually. As long as you don't hurt my country or people, I'm quite all right with it. There's rather a lot of stupidity done in the name of misguided patriotism or over defence of borders."

 "I'm getting your blessing, am I?" Dobrev asks, still looking amused. "You realise that could be tantamount to treason."

 "Hardly." Edmund replies. "As long as it's beneficial to both parties, it's not liable."

 ----

 Edmund walks into the kitchen and Susan immediately narrows her eyes. "Who're you shagging?" Susan is in some ways even better than Lucy at Edmund's tells. She pauses, examining him. "You're in a fairly serious relationship. And I'm imagining it doesn't bode too well." 

 Edmund sighs, not bothering to deny it, since it's Susan. Susan doesn't revel in teasing, she simply states facts. "...He's a complete tosser."

 Susan opens the cupboard and takes out the tea, topping it up from the tin she's bought from the grocers, and comments "Because you've never fallen for those before. Details? What does he do for a living?"

 "...um." Edmund winces. he really wishes it wasn't this embarrassing. Or that Susan could read him so well. Too many years at the sharp end of diplomacy and negotiation, living on her wits and the tiniest of tells amongst people who made their living by showing as little opinion as possible.

 She shakes her head at his reaction and says dryly. "Another spy. Well done, Ed. Please tell me they're at least on our side. For a given value of 'our'." 

 Edmund coughs a little and continues looking uncomfortable. "For a given value. He's not hostile." 

 Susan sighs. it's very much in the 'give me strength' category, familiar to sensible big sisters everywhere. "Of course, you had to pick someone whose job -" she pauses in her measuring of the tea. "not everyone cares so little for appearances as you, Ed. Be careful you don't ruin him. Some countries aren't as forgiving of men who like men as Britain is. You wouldn't want to see him end up in a Gulag because you made a move in front of the wrong person." 

 "he doesn't." Edmund says. "Care, that is. he's the one who tends to skate close to the edge, and did long before I came along." 

 "Well, that's something." Susan says. "You can be shot for treason together." 

 -----

 Stefan leans forward and kisses his forehead. "Always so paranoid." He says fondly.

 "Keeps me alive." Edmund says, reaching up and stroking Stefan's face. "You've been in the spy trade at least as long as I have, I know you've got to be older than you appear. I still have no idea how you survive."

 "There are different ways and means. Never stop moving is one. And what one man sees as far gone is safe and comforting territory for another." Stefan says. "But you wouldn't be the Edmund I know and love without being incredibly paranoid and close-mouthed." He takes Edmund's hand and kisses the fingertips before letting it go, before tucking his head into Edmund's shoulder and breathing in. Edmund pats his hair, running his fingers through the wild curls that he suspects nothing short of shaving will get rid of, and gets the feeling he's being used as a giant teddy bear. Or touchstone. Maybe touchstone would be better. Edmund suddenly realises what Stefan said. Definitely touchstone. He's ignoring the hot feelings in his chest the words may or may not have induced.

 He smiles, getting enough of a grip in the curls to tug Stefan's head back so he can kiss him, just a brush of their lips. "I'll try." He leans in again to brush another kiss across Stefan's mouth. "Crazy bastard."

 Stefan smiles against Edmund's mouth, the words vibrating across his skin. "And they wonder why we work so well together."

 


	4. Lucy

Torchwood Cardiff life continues apace, with its domestic disputes, acquisitioning of alien technology, re-acquisitioning of alien technology, dealing with things coming out of the sewers and rising out of the sea and coming in on ships, short-cuts taken by slightly unscrupulous quartermasters and shipping agents, Customs and Excise squabbles, appeals for refuge, registering of illegal aliens who want to transfer from other lands, and things and people that fall through the rift, Torchwood One memos and dictats, grumbling from Torchwood Two about misuse of requisitioned artefacts and the state of the new ones they turn in, and the occasional visit from Susan's brother Edmund on missions from his masters in the secret service. 

 This particular Tuesday dawns in a normal fashion. It's raining, a new ship has come in and Meredith Evans, in charge of stores on the east dock - his family's originally from the Andromeda galaxy, about three generations in, and you can only really tell by the swirling markings of what looks like a rash up his arms and legs - told them it's half full of pottery from the Delta Quadrant. However, all of it's been notarised, paid for and all the paperwork is present and correct, and it's not explosive, so all well and good there. And apparently one of the recipients is a Mr. Gwyn Powell, address the quay, west Bute Docks, Cardiff, order comprising an entire crockery set and a pot.

 Gibson sighs. "Do I want to know, Powell?"

 Powell examines the pot for any dings and cracks. "At first I thought it was the easiest way to get an example for the archives. Comparison issues and all that, stopping incorrect identification, since we've had their pottery grains mistaken for a type of armour before due to its similarities in molecular structure as it's not breakable, never mind what it actually looks like. On second thoughts, the rate we've been known to go through plates and mugs, I thought it a sensible decision to get a set for the Torchwood kitchen."

 "And the pot, Powell?" Gibson asks.

 "I thought it might look nice on the shelf in my office." Powell says.

 Davies gives him a sideways look. "I can't believe you got interior decoration through as official supplies so you didn't have to pay for it."

 Powell sniffs. "Just because my aesthetic aligns with useful items. You're just jealous."

 Gibson sighs. "All right, all right... we've had an advance on that lead we were looking for. LeBlanc in Paris says an alias that they've previously earmarked came up on the passenger list of a ferry leaving Cherbourg. the tickets booked included a round trip to Cardiff. Let's go looking for him."

 "Which case does this relate to?" Jack asks.

 "The one where were looking for leads on regarding that 1930s cabaret club in Berlin." Gibson says.

 "Tentative, isn't it?" Davies asks. "Someone who might know a woman who might know a man who used to perform there getting on for fifteen years ago because he might have a piece of jewellery..."

 "The jewellery is of rather significant importance, Davies." Gibson says. "Significant enough that leads are worth following up."

 "Why don't we just ask Jack?" Davies says. "He seems to know everyone. Or at least shagged them."

 "Trust me, I'd remember a nose like that." Jack says.

 ----

By two, it's fairly clear they're not getting anywhere, and the call comes for them to meet up back at the Hub. Susan sighs. "It wouldn't help if it wasn't so vague. He could've been in Swansea hours ago and us none the wiser. Really, it's a wild goose chase."

 "true, but we had to make an effort." Davies says. "Apparently." He pulls a notebook out of his pocket and flicks through it. "At least we know who might be connected to him if he wants to double back, given their reaction."

 The gates at the bottom of the lift open, and they walk in to be faced with something rather unpleasant. And not a little unexpected.

 There's a body collapsed across the table they use for eating at, face purple in a shade that normally would be designated as dead if you didn't work at Torchwood. It's dressed in the clothing their doctor, McAdam, was last seen in this morning. Davies moves first, striding over to poke it and pulling a reader out of her pocket to check for life signs and the possibility that the body might not actually be McAdam, and just a replacement. It's not unknown in Torchwood history to find Nestene doubles in the place of bodies when the original has been kidnapped for information, so they try to always check, especially if said body is superficially intact - ie, no blood and guts. 

 The scanner beeps. "Positive for DNA match and human, signature John McAdam. There's something lodged in his throat, big enough to block it." Davies reads out, assessing the scene. He's got half a sandwich on the plate, one hand under his throat, the paper under his face and a cup of tea knocked over in what looks like his struggles and convulsions, desperately attempting to breathe.

 There's a period of silence as everyone tries to take it in, some moving over to look. There's no real other conclusion. McAdam died from choking on a sandwich. In any other situation it would be unpleasant. In Torchwood, where life expectancy normally isn't that wonderful, normal cause exceedingly violent death, and even less for field agents unless you're Jack Harkness, who just seems to go on and on and occasionally take jobs and assignments elsewhere, it's practically miraculous. The irony isn't lost on the team.

 Susan's the first to speak. "This really is ridiculous." She walks over to the phone and dials. "Charing Cross Hospital, Casualty Ward, please. Yes, I'll wait." She checks her nails while she waits, everyone else still hovering over the body. "Is that the Casualty Ward? Sister Pevensie, please. Normally on extension 3-2-7, please tell her that her sister needs her." She raises a pointed eyebrow at Jack and flicks a finger at McAdam's body, in a clear 'get on with it' gesture. He nods and goes to get the stretcher. When he's back with it, Susan's got her connection. "Lucy, you've got a new job. Start packing and get on the first train to Cardiff, will you?" There's another pause. "No, I'm quite serious. Our healer died and I'd prefer not to fish around for a rank amateur. Yes, of course finish your shift before handing in your notice, we're not that desperate. No-one's actually bleeding yet." there's a pause. "Well, there's one dead body but he's not bleeding. Or going anywhere."

 Gibson pauses in helping Jack and Davies get McAdam off the chair and onto the stretcher, finishes putting him on, then straightens as Susan puts the phone down. "What was that, may I ask? Because it sounded awfully like you going over my head to hire someone who hasn't been through vetting."

 Susan walks over to the nearest filing cabinet and starts rifling through it for something. "If you can name a doctor with combat experience who's likely to take all of Torchwood's more interesting moments in their stride right this minute, feel free to call them. Lucy fits the bill and comes with references." She says, sounding supremely unconcerned about challenging his authority.

 Gibson narrows his gaze. "Whose?"

 Susan pulls a piece of paper out of the cabinet, and levels a gaze at him. "Mine." The tone is chilly enough to freeze pieces of anatomy Jack's very fond of, and has a better 'my final word is law' ring to it than he's heard from several dictators.

 Gibson rubs his chin. "Well, I suppose she can have a trial."

 "There's no suppose about it." Susan says. "Lucy is possibly the most qualified person you will ever find for this job. Oh, and she'll make a decent field agent if necessary."

 "Know that for a fact, do you?" Jack asks.

 Susan smiles. it's the porcelain doll one, the one Jack thinks of as her 'pissing you off for the sake of it just by showing no actual expression' face. Blank and pleasant. "I know my sister."

 -----

 Lucy Pevensie arrives on the sleeper from Paddington. She arrives at Cardiff station to see her sister waiting for her. Lucy hugs her as she gets off the train. "Wonderful to see you, Su." She steps back to look at her, having to tilt her head a little. Both of them knew she'd never be that tall when she reached adulthood again, so were more prepared for it than their mother, if nothing else, being able to state clothing sizes required. "Getting to run around after things that go bump in the night certainly suits you better than being a typist."

 "Well, it's better for my fitness, certainly." Susan replies. "Are you sorry to get pulled away from nursing?"

 "we'll see." Lucy says. "I love nursing - really, I do love it - but you're offering me a job that combines it, as well as variety in my patients and possible running around after things. I was on the night shift, which involves an awful lot of vigil. I think I've been spoiled."

 "Or born too late to be an army nurse during the war." Susan says wryly. "It's entirely possible you may simply be too young."

 "Yes, but if that had been the case I'd never have been evacuated and where would we have been?" Lucy asks, grinning cheerfully.

 "Well, Peter would certainly be dead, with his talent for self-preservation." Susan says.

 "That reminds me, are you sure you're all right with him being off overseas and not there for you to boss around?" Lucy says, adjusting her bag as Susan picks up her suitcase.

 "I'm gritting my teeth and reminding myself that he's an adult and quite capable of taking care of himself and his men." Susan sighs.

 Lucy gives her a disbelieving look. "Yes, but this is our brother we're talking about. Who knows what kind of problems he's caused by thinking the way he usually does."

 "I have hope that he's learned, the second time round, how to comport himself outside a battlefield." Susan says. She pauses. "Lucy, if you go purple with trying to hold the sniggering in, you've only got yourself to blame."

 "Spoilsport. Now tell me about the people I'll be working with." Lucy says as they leave the platform.

 "Well, you'll be meeting them soon enough, why should I spoil the surprise?" Susan says.

 Lucy narrows her eyes. "This is a test, isn't it?"

 "Would I do such a thing like that?" Susan asks innocently.

 "Susan, your impression of innocent is actually worse than mine, did anyone ever tell you that? At least I could fake cute little girl reasonably well."

\------

 The gate opens and Susan ushers in a young woman a few years younger than herself, both of them carrying her luggage. "Lucy, the Torchwood Institute, Cardiff branch. I'll introduce you once we've put your bags away and got you a cup of tea. Did they feed you on the train?"

 "Some toast would be nice. Or an egg." Lucy says cheerfully. It's a striking difference between her and her siblings already, who seem to go in for faintly amused if not carefully blank as a default expression.

 "I believe we can manage that. or if really pressed, filch something from one of the docks canteens." Susan says. "They normally do as decent a fry-up as you could hope for under rationing."

 Once Lucy's got her cup of tea and had a boiled egg and toast from the limited kitchen supplies, the others approach. Torchwood as a whole tends to frequent tea shops and greasy spoons rather than cook, so it's impressive that there was something in there aside from the mountains of tea and biscuits. "Lucy Pevensie, pleased to meet you. My sister refused to tell me anything about you as she likes to make sure I form my own impressions."

 "Really?" Jack says. "I thought she'd told Edmund everything before he got here."

 "Yes, but that's Edmund." Lucy says. "He might develop a twitch if he couldn't get all the information he could possibly get before doing something. worse, he might get paranoid, and we couldn't allow that."

 Jack grins. "Group Captain Jack Harkness. Call me Jack. I think I'm going to like you, miss Pevensie."

 "Lucy." She really doesn't seem to stop smiling. Quite impressive.

 "I go on record now as realising it was a horrible mistake introducing the pair of you." Susan says.

 "You only say that because we haven't made anyone cower in fear yet." Lucy grins. Jack thinks he's really going to like her. this first impression is getting better and better.

 "Derek Gibson, I run this station of Torchwood. Forgive me for seeming a little out of sorts, but your sister informed me that you would be replacing our medic and I still know practically nothing about you beyond you being a nurse." Gibson says, shaking her hand.

 "well, we can't all have files an inch thick on us." Lucy says. "Don't worry, I’m good at what I do and I do take my job seriously."

 Gibson nods. "Reassuring. Might I ask if you share the Pevensie trait of being impossible to shock and being good in a fight?"

 "Oh, those come as standard, I'm afraid." Lucy says. "It's something we seem to pick up by osmosis. we merely have different specialities when it comes to fighting."

 "Stephen Davies, long suffering field agent and the one who has to be the boring voice of reason and back up when this lot goes charging into the affray." Davies says.

 "Back up is always necessary. You think that's bad, try being the one who has to wait with the baggage for the injured, hoping you've got enough bandages." Lucy says. Jack swears he can almost hear the curtsey each time she answers. Like she's giving an audience to the grateful gathering. and baggage is an incredibly interesting word to use in this day and age. It's normal use is history books in the context of all the people who had to came along with the soldiers for war.

 "Myra Hughes, I work with all the vehicles and tech and occasionally get forced to be the receptionist." Myra says, wiping the last of the oil off her hands before shaking. 

 "Oh, poor you, I could never do that. Apparently I'm horrific at taking notes."

 "Gwyn Powell, archives. For all your medical reference needs." Gwyn says.

 "Ah. I'm going to need to go over those with you and bring them up-to-date, since you would not believe how many mistakes and misclassifications can be made by the inexperienced." Lucy says, looking like she's now actually engaged rather than just cheerful. "Actually, can I get a full index list off you once I've been shown where I'm going to work? I might need to reclassify some things depending, and it helps when I've got a decent librarian at my beck and call. I promise to pay with an awful lot of tea and discretion."

 "Discretion?" Gibson asks suspiciously.

 "Oh, you know. Those little things people would rather be treated quietly, or given reassurances about. Ingrowing toenails, that sort of thing." She gives an innocent smile, and then follows up with a tone that's so dripping in innuendo even Jack thinks of taking notes. "Why, what kind of thing were you thinking of?"

 Susan sighs. "I would like to apologise for my sister in advance. Occasionally."

 "Please note she never apologises in advance for Edmund." Lucy says cheerfully. 

 "I wonder why that might be." Susan says dryly.

 ----

 Lucy Pevensie is... actually most of the things she appears to be in those first five minutes of introduction. Cheerful, no-nonsense and a filthy sense of humour that rivals Jack's, who doesn't ever bother hiding an emotion, unlike her siblings. She's a very good battlefield nurse, and by that Jack really does mean battlefield. Medics they've picked up previously tend to skew more towards the general practitioner, nurse or surgeon end, with the occasional army medic. Lucy, although absolutely brilliant with disease, broken limbs and that sort of thing, seems her most comfortable with horrific injuries caused in fights or made using weapons. The time Susan took a knife to the arm, Lucy just told everyone in a rather calm voice to shove off out of her bay, aside from Davies, who she'd requisitioned as having some of the steadiest hands, and calmly walked him through the exact moment to pull the knife, stitched her up, then dripped in various antibiotics and a concoction of her own, before moving onto scans using the equipment they've scavenged over the years.

 "What did you do, hang around bomb sites and wait for wounded to get experience?" Jack asks, leaning on the rail above the medical bay.

 "That's for me to know and you to find out." Lucy says distractedly, checking her readings.

\----  


 Susan watches Lucy set about finding everything she can about the new equipment she's got her hands on when she's got free time, checking it against the notes and records she has from Powell. "I really do miss my elixir." she comments, on checking a Sontaran piece. "But this device is far more fun."

 "I think you like it more for the noise and levers than the fact it re-grows bone." Susan says dryly, watching her bustle about the infirmary.

 "Clicky noises are fun." Lucy agrees. "Now hold still while I repair that fracture you got during hockey practice."

 "What fracture?" Susan asks, bemused.

 "Hairline on your little finger." Lucy says promptly, taking her wrist and getting her to hold the offending finger out. "The one that twinges very slightly when you're tapping your fingers on the table."

 ----

Powell comes up from the archives with the latest batch of requests from the archives Lucy asked for. She's been going through them methodically, studying everything on anatomy and chemical reactions in the files on aliens, monsters and rift-crossers they have, and her opinion seems to be that most of it is utter piffle. 

 "I mean, that one's clearly a water-breather, look at its rib cage. Honestly, who did this?" She says, flicking at the file she's just been going through in disgust.

 "he was on land when I killed him." Jack says.

 Lucy rolls her eyes. "And you clearly aren't a doctor. Or winning prizes for observation any time soon. I suppose I should be glad that you could see that it was a boy." She pauses. "And considering this particular species doesn't look like it has obvious sex markers above its clothing, dare I ask if you knew him prior to shooting him or if it was discovered in autopsy?"

 Jack shakes his head. "Autopsy. Didn't really get a particularly good look at him before and after... well, have you seen the remarks in the file about the state of his teeth?"

 Lucy flicks to that page and grimaces. "You have a point. What was he eating?"

 "Probably too much starch." Jack says. "Gets a lot of species on this planet, the main foodstuffs being carbohydrate based. Sugar's what does humans in, but they're not prepared for what it does to their teeth and guts. Especially rationing being what it is."

 Lucy leans back, tapping a pen against her lips and eyeing him. "You, Jack Harkness, will be getting your brain picked for all of your anecdotal knowledge on species. it may turn out to be very useful for cataloguing."

 Powell picks up some of Lucy's latest notes on where texts and files should be filed, and under what classification. They're very useful. It may mean more work, but already certain parts of the anatomy section are starting to make more sense. And she makes tea automatically. "You do know that any observations of Jack's on anatomy will likely be very specific observations on certain parts of the anatomy?"

 "Blood flow, speed of and blush reflex can be more important than you think." Lucy says with a solemn face. For all of two seconds. then she pauses. "Also it's very good knowledge to have when stitching up their wounds, as well as figuring out new ways to treat other species. Ooo, that reminds me, did you find anything down there on that species that was said to have been found apparently eating rocks? I want to check if there were any notes on its stomach lining."

 "...Dare I ask?" Powell asks Jack.

 "No clue there, sorry. I'm not a medical man beyond knowing how to bind a wound and fix a dislocated shoulder." Jack says.

 "If you must know, I want to check the possibility of using it as an alternate pump bag." Lucy says.

 "...we have new technology for that sort of thing." Jack says. "And trust me, it's going to get better."

 "Yes, but you never know when the electricity and machines might fail and you're stuck in a medieval society where there's no recourse to makers, Jack." Lucy says blithely, flicking through the set of files in front of her. "Never underestimate just how useful a bladder or stomach is. Knowing the basics of tanning is also very useful."

 ----

 "All right, Casablanca." Susan and Gibson hear Myra say as they step into the Hub, trying to shake a modicum of the downpour outside off their coats.

 "...Laszlo." Powell says.

 "Rick." Jack says.

 "Oh, there's a surprise." Myra says.

 "Laszlo." Davies says.

 They're all sitting on the couch drinking tea. "Are you so bored that you're playing 'who you most identify with' in a film?" Gibson asks.

 "Good lord, no." Lucy says cheerfully. "Who you'd like to shag. But you have to taken them entirely by personality and skills, not on looks. Hence so many of the boys going for the noble hero who stays faithful."

 "It's not all about that." Davies objects. "He also gets on with everyone. That's a damn good trait." 

 "Myra?" Jack prompts.

 "Are you sure I can't have Captain Renault?" Myra asks.

 "Yes, that's one of the rules." Lucy says. "All characters played by Claude Rains are disqualified that everyone wants to shag him regardless of looks. Same goes for Katherine Hepburn."

 "Oh all right." Myra sighs. "Ilsa. You, Lucy?"

 "Let's get the others in as well." Lucy says. "Susan would choose Rick, so what about you, Gibson?"

 "Must I?" Gibson asks.

 "Yes. Play along." Lucy insists.

 Gibson thinks it over "...Laszlo. Susan, would you concur with Lucy?"

 Susan picks up a cloth and blots at her hair. "Lucy knows me all too well. I'd pick Rick, as she said." She blots at her hair some more. "I am going to make tea, because I know exactly what Lucy's response is going to be." she says, walking off to the kitchen.

 "Bring back biscuits!" Lucy calls. “Anyway, I pick Sam.” She says once Susan's in the kitchen.

 "But Sam? Why would you pick Sam?" Davies asks.

 "Sam? Easy. Loyal, good in a crisis, and a piano player."

 "what difference does that make?" Myra asks. Lucy holds up her hands, wiggles her fingers and produces an absolutely filthy grin.

 Jack snorts into his tea, then wipes his face. "Woman after my own heart."

 Susan comes back a few minutes later with two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits balanced on top of one. She hands one of the mugs to Gibson and puts the plate on the little table in front of the sofa, and everyone dives for them. "I presume Lucy picked Sam?"

 "You were listening." Myra accuses.

 "Lucy has always had a thing for people with talented fingers. Especially musicians." Susan says, blowing on her tea.

 ---

 When it comes to weapons training and assessment, Jack gets patted on the shoulder by Davies. "Remember, prepare for any and all eventualities and you'll be fine."

 "Normally I'm the one who gets told to go easy on them." Jack says.

 "Yes, but those were common or garden spies, police, medical staff and thieves. Not Pevensies." Davies says. "Though I'd probably predict she's a dab hand at knives."

 "What makes you think that?" Jack asks, dryly.

 "Oh, no evidence. None whatsoever." Davies says, walking off, whistling.

 Lucy Pevensie and her knives. Or rather, scalpels. All of Torchwood have walked into the medical bay to see Lucy playing with scalpels. Not just slicing things up, or stabbing apples. Specifically, Lucy does *tricks*. She's been seen flipping them through her fingers, rolling them down her arms and flipping them off her elbows, juggling them in incredibly complex motions, including the type where you throw them into the air, spin and catch them to carry on juggling, throwing them at a dartboard she installed, making them disappear and reappear... the list goes on.

 Myra whistles at the latest pattern on the dartboard as she walks in to get a burn from fixing an engine seen to. "Are you sure you don't want to leave nursing and get a really good job at the circus?" 

 Lucy shakes her head. "I couldn't cope with the dumb animals."

 "Dumb? Aren't they all?" Myra asks. "I loved the circus as a kid. The tigers and elephants and dogs doing tricks were what made it."

 "Bears made to do tricks. It's not nice." Lucy explains. "Would you like to be forced to do that kind of thing and not be able to talk back?"

 "Yes, but animals can't talk."

 "Not that you know of. They've all got their own language." Lucy points out.

 "All right, you might have a point." Myra says. "So where did you learn all the knife tricks?"

 "I was given a knife as a little girl for a Christmas present one year." Lucy says. "I really have no idea what they were thinking, but I decided I might as well learn to use it. Big or small doesn't really make that much difference once you figure out the balance." 

 Down in the training vaults, Jack hands Lucy a gun. "All right, go ahead. Surprise me."

 "Um. I've never actually used one of these before." Lucy says.

 Jack raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're a Pevensie?"

 "I learnt nursing!" She says indignantly. "I'm not a bad shot with other things, I've just never used a gun."

 It takes Lucy a little while to compensate for the weight and recoil, but she's pretty good once she's got the hang of it, and the same for adjusting to other guns. She's not a miracle savant with any kind of projectile weapon, like her sister.

 "Susan can hit a small thrush on a foggy day on top of Nelson's column." Lucy points out, lowering the bow and arrow she's currently using, huffing with annoyance when Jack points this out. "I am not Susan. No-one is Susan. But I can still considered bloody good, thank you."

 Jack looks at her. "Have I finally hit a sore spot?"

 Lucy pouts. "Everyone has their speciality. I just constantly get 'really good but not Susan' at some things. It's not like she can spin knives on her fingers anywhere near as well as I can."

 "My mother raised me to be very wary of people who could spin knives on their fingers like you can." Jack says.

 "Good boy." Lucy says approvingly. "A healthy fear is very good for you." She pauses, thoughtfully. "Of course, it -"

 "Can be very sexy, especially if they can cook." Jack finishes. They grin at each other, pleased at their thoughts seguing. "Okay, let's see you with something else."

 Lucy, it turns out, is very good at hand to hand, and rather good with hand held weapons. Not as good as her brother but better than her sister. She fights much nastier, for a start. Like all Pevensies Jack's encountered - three in the flesh and one on paper - she's not someone you want to meet down a dark alley. Especially if you're stupid enough to try to mug them. And then comes knife fighting. Lucy pokes Jack in the thigh with her shoe where he's collapsed on the floor. "Oh come on, I barely scratched you." Lucy says.

 "No, you stabbed me three times, rammed the hilt of your knife into my ear, broke my nose, then kicked me in the back of the knee and then rammed your elbow into my kidneys. Then you kicked me again. And stamped on my inner thigh." Jack wheezes, refusing to get up until it stops hurting. "Where did you learn to fight so nastily?"

 "Bigger older brothers." Lucy says promptly. And brightly. Did Jack mention brightly? the constant grinning is beginning to get to him. "They fight dirty anyway, I just have to compensate for my size. If in doubt, poke them in the eye and kick them when they’re down so they don't get up again. Sensible mantra to live by."

 "How many knives are you carrying, anyway?" Jack asks after Lucy helps him up.

 "Only two." Lucy says.

 "Not afraid of losing one?" Jack asks. "Seems very few for a girl with your speciality."

 "I've only got two hands." Lucy points out. "Besides, it's not like I ever lose them." She folds her arms. "When can I show off how good I am at throwing small sharp objects?"

 "When we need the cash for drinks in a pub and someone's stupid enough to take you on at darts." Jack says. "I think the time you spelled out 'bored' in scalpels on the cork board was enough test of your skills there."

 "I could demonstrate how good I am at hitting moving objects with precision." Lucy says.

 "Myra was juggling things for you to hit only yesterday." Jack says.

 "Some people are no fun and never let me do what I want." Lucy pouts.

 -----

 Jack comes in one morning, scratching at his shoulders. Lucy, who's been reading the paper, walks over, pushes him into a chair and jerks his collar open. "Hey! If you wanted me that badly, you only had to ask." Jack says.

 "Maybe when I'm bored." Lucy muses, poking at his skin, then smirks. "Shagging water breathers will give you a rash like that if you're not used to it. Hang on, I've got a cream." With that, she disappears downstairs into the infirmary.

 Jack stares after her and comments to Davies "How does a 20 year old have this amount of xenobiology knowledge?"

 Susan sighs from across the room. "You don't want to know. You really, really don't want to know."

 There's a yell from downstairs amidst sounds of rummaging. "Jack, do you know if they were salt or freshwater?"

 "Does it matter?" Jack asks, striding over to peer over the railing.

 "Your throat will thank me if it's salt water." Lucy replies, pulling out a bottle of green cream and dispensing some of it into a jar, hurrying up the stairs and pushing it into his hands. "Once every two hours, and whatever you do, don't apply it internally."

 Jack raises an eyebrow. "All the doctors I've met would recommend internal first after sex."

 "Oh, your insides don't really have a problem in this situation, they flush it out in the space of a few days." Lucy says cheerfully. "Your outsides, it sinks into the skin and sticks around like a bad smell."

 "I do heal fast." Jack points out.

 "But not instantaneously, and scratching will only make it worse. and spread it around faster than you can heal from it, because it'll get lodged in your nails." She points out in return. "Trust the healer."

 ----

 Edmund comes down to Cardiff, and nearly gets tackled to the floor by Lucy as he comes through the gate. "Edmund! I haven't seen you in ages! Come visit more often!"

 Edmund wheezes slightly, since Lucy hit him right in the stomach and not that many people are prepared for flying young women. "I have the excuse that I was somewhere on the continent doing rather suspicious things you could get arrested for on civvy street?"

 Lucy huffs. "And what kind of excuse is that for you to not come see your favourite sister?"

 "Who said anything about favourite?" Edmund asks, giving her a hug. "Most insane and trouble-making sister, yes..."

 "I only make trouble on the local level. Susan's the one who goes in for much more big scale trouble. Like entire countries being deprived of their mineral wealth, with watertight contracts accompanying it." Lucy pauses. "Preferably with as little fuss as possible, and where's the fun in that?"

 Edmund pokes her in the head. "Some days I'm convinced that you and Peter were adopted."

 Lucy sticks her tongue out in reply. "If anyone's adopted, it's you and Susan. Self-possession like that isn't natural."

 "No, it just takes an awful lot of patience and learning control."

 "Patience. Yuck." Lucy says, still hugging him.

 "I know, I know, it's a dirty word..." Edmund says.

 Edmund's down for a few days. research and auditing. It's a fun, fun job. With mountains of paperwork, and calls to Torchwood One and Three, and the archives. Halfway through they have to go chasing through the centre of town at five in the morning after something that was reported attacking men coming out of a lock-in. At least it's dry. "I could be in bed." Davies moans.

 "You could have got another job. Think yourself lucky, you're in the van monitoring the radio." Edmund says. "They're circling around past the station." he says into the radio.

 "Already there." Susan replies. "herd them into the castle grounds."

 "Do I want to know?" Jack asks.

 "It's as though you've never heard of reducing any possibility of civilian casualties, Harkness." Susan says. then grunts.

 "Because there's so many street cleaners and milkmen out at this time of the morning." Edmund says. "... Do I want to know why you just grunted?"

 "I'm taking precautions and surveying the area." Susan replies.

 A bicycle shoots past them. "What did you just say about street cleaners?" Jack asks.

 They herd them into the castle grounds, scrambling over the gates and through the entrance. "All right, we're here." Jack says. "Now what?"

 "Get them to a clear spot and flash that wristwatch of yours." Susan says.

 "What're you going to do, beam them up?" Jack asks. "Should I be calling you Scotty?"

 "I don't even want to know what that's in reference to. Just be glad it's a clear night." Susan says.

 Edmund runs to one side, firing off a couple of bullets and a heat beam to stop them breaking for the trees. Jack flashes his wrist computer, the glow appearing and disappearing in the half light of approaching dawn.

 There's a whine, whoosh, wet thud and the sound of a body hitting the floor as one of what they're chasing goes down, and a second later, another whine, whoosh and wet thud and the next goes down.

 "Any more?" Susan asks over the radio.

 "Just those two." Edmund says, running up to the dark shapes of the bodies collapsed on the grass. Sticking out of their heads are long wooden shafts. With feathers attached. he touches the end of them and brings his fingers to his nose, sniffing. "Susan, how long ago did you do this fletching?"

 "A couple of months ago during a boring afternoon." Susan replies.

 "And the feathers?"

 "Goose. I got some from a local butcher."

 "I don't even want to know how you managed to make the glue in the depths of the Hub without gassing yourself." Edmund says.

 "Is the fletching damaged?" Susan asks.

 He pulls out a torch and shines it on the ends of the arrows while Jack checks the bodies for signs of life. They're not getting up, at least. "Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing, but you're the expert." Edmund turns, swinging the torch around at the trees in the direction the shots were made from. "Where are you, anyway?"

 "The castle." Susan replies. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Susan out."

 "Did your sister just shoot them with a bow and arrow from the castle?" Jack asks. That's not something he was expecting by any stretch.

 "Well, it's not as though she hasn't done it before." Edmund says, pulling out a mint, and flicks his radio on again. "Davies, did you get all that?"

 "Your sister is quite mad." Davies says. "Do you want me to bring the van around?"

 "Unless you've got another way to transport the bodies." Edmund says.

 Susan arrives, trotting through the wet grass, bow unstrung and in her hand, quiver over her shoulder. "Oh good." She says, looking at the bodies. "Clean shot."

 "That's what you were worried about, little miss marksman?" Jack asks.

 "I haven't had to make a shot of that distance in a while." Susan says, going to check on her arrows.

 "I'm amazed you managed to get into the castle that fast, I could've sworn it was locked up." Jack says.

 "Clearly you don't know castles too well." Susan says. "There's always a way in."

 "Several, in fact." Edmund adds.

 "I'm still not sure what possessed you to bring that." Jack says as Susan pulls the arrows out of the ...creatures' bodies. They look somewhere halfway between trolls and bats. They smell as bad as trolls, at least. Lucy will be able to tell them more when they get the bodies back to the Hub.

 "I distinctly remember you saying that bullets had had no effect, at least not more than irritating them, and that they'd managed to chew through at least one electric cable." Susan says, examining whatever's on the end of them, scraping as much off the arrows as possible and bagging it for analysis. "Longbows do have the advantage of distance and stopping power, if nothing else." Pause. "And, of course, re-usable ammo, unlike bullets."

 "Yes, Su, we're quite aware you could be the ambassador for the Robin Hood society if you chose." Edmund says. "Are you sure you never secretly never read William Tell before the first time you were handed a bow?"

 "Never had the slightest inkling." Susan says.

 "Some of us just have suspicions, is all." Edmund says as the van approaches the castle gates and Jack trots off to open them to let him in.

 


	5. London and other places

Edmund's sitting in the Coach and Horses enjoying a quiet pint, keeping an eye on the time.  He has an appointment to keep.  Specifically, in a second-hand book shop a few roads over.  And he really has to make it, because this book shop keeps possibly the worst opening hours he's ever seen, even in the second hand book trade, who are a law unto themselves when it comes to erratic opening hours.  Other second hand bookshop owners speak in low, admiring whispers of the customer unfriendliness heights this owner manages to achieve.

 He's not buying anything, and he hasn't ordered anything for pick up.  No-one who's ever stood in this book shop for more than five minutes would be stupid enough to do that.  He's heard rumours.  they all have.  But then this is the spy and second hand book trade.  rumours are nothing unless they have the cold, hard evidence in their hands.  and even then it needs verifying against other sources.  careful verifying.

 When it's time, he knocks back the last of his drink, puts on his hat and leaves the pub, ambling through Soho until he reaches his destination, heading south. The shop he wants is dark and dingy, window display covered in dust, but most importantly,  the sign currently says 'open'.  Almost certainly resentfully.  he pushes open the door, with its bell that makes a 'thunk' noise rather than a tinkle, closing it carefully behind him, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.  It'd been relatively sunny outside.

 Most of the books inside aren't covered in dust, which is a pretty good sign of what the owner cares about.  The smell of boiling cabbage, old damp carpet and even older wet dog would be enough to put most people off, unless you're really dedicated. However, Edmund specifically came here, and he's smelt worse.  You've really never smelt worse than a three day old dead unicorn.  It's been known to make battle hardened surgeons gag.  That includes his sister Lucy.  Possibly followed by an incredibly hungover minotaur's breath.  Edmund starts to browse the shelves, counting down until the proprietor comes out to glower at the intruder into his personal domain.

 There's a creak and footsteps from the back room, followed by rather a lot of harrumphing. "This is not a library." A disgruntled voice says. "And I doubt you can afford anything in here."

 Edmund looks up. "Good afternoon, Mr. Fell." He says, tilting a book out from the shelf to check the front cover.  Carefully, mind.  He's done a little bit of research and found that gossip in the second hand book trade indicates that a lot of these dog-eared, stained and frayed books are worth quite a bit of money to the right person.  The right person being of very narrow and esoteric interests.  The shelves are mostly filled with mystical, philosophical and prophecy texts.  The more esoteric and specialised end of the genre.

 The proprietor of the shop, a Mr A. Fell, tilts his glasses down, expression changing from outright moody and hostile to merely grumpy and set in his ways. "Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Pevensie. here to browse again?"

 "Very carefully, Mr. Fell." Edmund replies.

 "I've got the kettle going if you were in the mood for a cup of tea.  There's a considerable dearth of biscuits, however, I got caught up in repair work and forgot to go to the shop..." Mr. Fell says, sounding as suitably absent-minded as you'd expect a second hand bookshop owner to be.  When he likes you, that is.  Edmund is one of the lucky ones who frequent this shop.

 On first appearances, Mr Fell looks like you'd expect from one of his trade, even if on closer examination he's a little younger than he sounds and acts.  Old but extremely well-made suit, guaranteed to last for many a decade to come with careful wear, glasses, rumpled blond hair, handkerchief absent mindedly stuffed into one pocket and poking out.  Chubby soft fingers, probably a little soft around the middle under the suit from his sedentary profession.  And gay as a treeful of monkeys on laughing gas.  If you encountered him in any number of the pubs in Soho, especially the ones on Old Compton Street, you'd expect him to use a fair bit of Polari in his speech.  Step back a little, and apparently Mr. Fell has had a bookshop there as long as anyone can remember.  His shop is one of the few in Soho not to suffer any damage from the bombs.  Not even a fallen bookcase or two, let alone a broken window.  Then bring in people like Edmund who have experience with the supernatural, and ... yes.  Mr. Fell gives off one of the biggest auras of power he's seen in this world.  this is a being who is very old, very powerful, and chooses to spend his time running a second hand bookshop in Soho. 

 "No, thanks, I just had a pint." Edmund says. "I was just going to browse a little."

 Mr. Fell sighs. "If you must."

 Edmund tilts a book on Nostradamus out of the shelf. "What made you decide to specialise in the mystical?"

 "Oh, you know how it is." Fell says vaguely. "You pick up one out of curiosity, then another, and before you know it, you've got a collection." He pushes his glasses up his nose, and fixes Edmund with a stare that is a little too sharp for Edmund's liking. "Do you have any interest in prophecy, my dear?"

  Edmund winces inwardly.  He's had enough personal experience with it for a lifetime, thank you. "I find it gets used for others’ ends.  Even if it is true."

 "Twisting to suit." Mr. Fell says. "Yes, I can see how that might make people uncomfortable, especially if they're the ones that get nominated to carry it out."  His gaze really is too sharp. Edmund wonders if he can see the taint other beings of power he's encountered  - or been very intimately involved with - have left on him.

 Fortunately it goes back to soft and vague when there's a bit of clunking from the back of someone moving around, and one of the other regulars of this shop emerges out of the back.  this figure's almost completely an opposite to to Mr. fell's soft, slightly dishevelled and absent minded appearance.  He's dressed in a  very sharp black suit, snakeskin shoes and cuff links, black hair oiled back, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and dark glasses he never takes off.  Just this side of being called a spiv.  Flash bastard would probably work. "Another of your security minded strays, angel?" he asks carelessly, leaning against the door frame in a move that's so practised it could get its own acting career.  And gives Edmund a dismissive up and down, before sneering in his general direction.

 Mr. Fell is very vague.  Probably by choice.  He runs a book shop. Anthony J. Crowley, on the other hand... He's known.  Nearly all too well.  He turns up in the strangest of places, from Russia to inner city Manchester to wine bars in Soho. most of the secret service insists they've met him or seen him talking to an officer or huddled around a camp-fire during the war, sharing the dreadful tea and camp coffee with the poor bloody infantry.  Sometimes he was coming out of an office.  He was often the poor sod whose job it was to pass on the brass's more... patriotic ideas (read: terrible) with a sympathetic grimace. Others saw him helping the resistance in France, delivering information and supplies and guns past the Nazis  There's talk of his activities in Spain during the civil war.  They can't remember which side he was on, just that he was there.  No-one's precisely sure which department he works for.  Maybe he consults with several.  But still.  Untrustworthy as a snake, and he looks just as untrustworthy and shiny, as though dirt simply slides off him, in the back of a book shop in Soho.  Why he does hang around here is a question for the ages, though the probable reason is that they're of very long association.  Association of the interesting type.

 "I don't encourage them, my dear." Mr. fell sniffs.  "I don’t know what it is about my shop that makes spies think they can use it as a meeting point.  they take my books off the shelf, attempt to look as though they're reading them when they clearly have no interest whatsoever, put them back in the wrong place..."

 "You don't appear to mind him coming in, angel." Crowley points out.  Edmund's not quite sure how he manages to fix Edmund with a look whilst wearing dark glasses, but Edmund tries to fade into the background nonetheless.

 "Well, yes. " Mr. Fell says, picking up a card index by the till. "Aside from that nice Mr. Smiley, who *respects* books and doesn’t view them as convenient places to leave notes for their contacts, Mr. Pevensies is one of the few who's careful with them."

 Crowley raises a contemptuous eyebrow.  "maybe they wouldn’t use it so much if there was a danger of any of them being sold, angel."

 There's an indrawn breath from Mr. Fell. "Sold?  Good lord, no.  What kind of state would I be in if I went around selling any of these?"

 "Well it *is* a book shop." Crowley points out.

 Mr. fell twitches, taking off his glasses and polishing them in the manner of someone who's just heard some rather disturbing news. "Sell.  Oh dear.  I really do rather need that cup of tea." he twitches again and drifts rather speedily into the back.

 Edmund tilts his head in disapproval. "I can't believe you suggested that." he murmurs.

 "he's mine to torment." Crowley says, flashing a grin. "Now have you found what you were looking for?"

 "Oh, a while back." Edmund says. "Amusing myself finding the others at the moment.  There's one in Morse from 1938 over there.  makes you wonder if anyone ever made it to pick it up, or that mission was no longer necessary."

 Crowley smiles, slowly and nastily. "Perhaps they were informed that they were no longer welcome."

 Mr. fell's second hand book shop in Soho started being used by spies of all stripes to leave messages for others just before the war.  it's not a new idea, leaving notes in libraries and such.  Mr. fell's shop was chosen precisely because he's so resistant to letting anything be sold, along with his incredibly erratic opening hours and general campaign to make sure the casual browser leaves as soon as possible, let alone enter.  So the secret service and their counterparts keep a hawk's eye on the shop's hours, entering when they can.  Different specialities choose different shelves, and a code of silence operates.  Mr. fell's shop is neutral ground, too valuable for now to kick up a fuss inside it, and never would they dare to try to arrest someone frequenting it.  For a start, they might be glared at.  Or Crowley would hear, and no-one in the British Secret Service really wants to see precisely how much influence he has and what position he actually holds. 

 -----

 Lucy stumbles out of the club, having had a nice time talking to the barmaid and an indication that more talking would be very welcome.  But now she needs a bit of fresh air, it's awfully hot and stuffy in there, and she was raised on dancing and parties that took place outdoors, or in halls with very high ceilings.  A dancehall that gets so hot seems wrong somehow.  She nearly stumbles over Jack, who's sitting on the step, head tilted back, looking upwards.  You sometimes find him on rooftops, on the highest points he can find in the city, staring out over it and up at the sky.  It's generally concluded that it's a combination of missing flying - though they're still not quite sure how much of that he did in the war, even if he's legitimately RAF.  There was an American in one of the Eagle Squadrons with the same name operating out of Cardiff who got killed here too, but that was in 1941, when Jack was off somewhere else.  And Jack's records say that's he's British born, simply spent too much time there when younger, so picked up the accent.  Torchwood's records certainly show him as having been in Britain for a very long time. 

 "What're you looking at, then?" Lucy asks, nudging her knee against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around herself to fend off the drop in temperature.  It's a warm night for spring, but it's still quite a bit cooler out here than it was in there. "Looking for spaceships?"

 "Hmm?" Jack asks, pulled out of his distraction "No, the stars."

 "Are you seeing something different?" Lucy asks, tilting her own head back.  They're all there, the constellations she can identify, and there's only a few clouds tonight.  Jack has been known to talk about different constellations from different places, but it's not as though Lucy herself couldn't talk about a different sky.

 "Sort of." Jack says. "Thinking about a story one of the rift crossers talked about."

 "Oh?" Lucy asks, interested.  The people the Rift spits out are occasionally coherent, and the stories they tell are quite, quite strange.  Worlds of mostly water, worlds where Queen Elizabeth married and had children, so the Civil War never happened and the monarchy is more than a figurehead,  worlds where more bombs than the horrendous ones that went off in Japan that ended the war there went off, and Europe and America are peppered with cities with shadows of people on the walls.

 "She came from a world without stars." Jack says.

 "A world without stars?" Lucy asks. "How does that happen?"

 Jack shrugs. "Something.  Maybe there was a forcefield around the earth and the human race wasn't advanced enough to develop anything that might detect it.  It's not unheard of.  There were legends of them existing in the night sky in the far past, star cults for people who believed that stars existed and that they'd come back one day."

 "Sounds fascinating." Lucy murmurs. "I can't imagine a world where you can't see the stars, unless the cloud cover or smoke from chimneys is really bad that night."

 "Me neither." Jack shakes his head. "She told another story, too.  She called it The Last Centurion.  There was supposed to be a centurion, left over from Roman times, who was still around - people had seen him down the centuries, including during the war, always being very specific.  He guarded a big box that had travelled from Stonehenge to Rome and back depending on who controlled Britain at the time.  He warned people away from it, because it wasn't ready to open yet."

 "Ooo, that does sound like a good tale.  A box not ready to be opened is always a good beginning." Lucy says. "What was the box supposed to contain?"

 "The greatest trickster in the world.  Terror and chaos followed behind him wherever he went, so armies from all over came to trap him in the box." Jack says. "I always wondered if I knew them."

 Lucy giggles. "I probably know a few candidates, although they're a bit more small-scale.  Was there any more about it?"

 "Yeah, he was supposed to be waiting for his lost love, and he couldn't see her until he'd finished his duty." Jack says.

 "Oh, they always are." Lucy says. "Knights and soldiers and their lady loves.  It sounds awfully romantic, but pining like that really isn't realistic."

 Jack rubs his hand over his chin. "I don't know.  I've waited a long time for someone."

 "But two thousand years?" Lucy screws up her face at the thought. "You'd forget who they were, memories all fuzzy, and if they did turn up, they'd be changed.  You certainly would be.  Even if there was time travel or a long sleep involved with the one you're waiting for.  they might not be what you want them for. You saw enough of it after this war.  Husbands and boyfriends went off to fight, and came back to find their wives had met someone else.  Or the girlfriend had discovered she could go out and be useful.  Or the boy was so shattered by war that he screamed at shadows every night." She pauses, toeing the step. “It's a nice idea, but like I said, people change.”

\----

 Edmund gets back from lunch, which was soup that appeared to be mostly mushroom and barley with a fraction of bacon thrown in for flavour.  Still, it was hot and filling.  he goes to his pigeon hole to check on any messages and mail. "Any calls, Pearl?" He asks the woman behind the desk.  She's sixty if she's day, and will probably outlive them all, if only because she's not made of human things, she's made of teak, iron will and Werthers Originals.  It's a potent combination.

 Pearl looks up from the stack of forms and chits in front of her.  According to her, the day the men and women of this department learn to fill in one correctly will be the day the apocalypse comes, never mind the Blitz. "Pevensie?  Oh yes, there was something..." She flicks through her pad of phone notes. "Rollins asked that you go straight to his office as soon as you got back from lunch."

 Edmund raises an eyebrow. "Any idea if it's urgent?"

 "Not that I know of.  And since he didn't explicitly state, I suggest you merely be prompt." Pearl says, then raises her own eyebrow. "Well?  Don't dawdle." She tuts. "I really do worry about the influence that Welsh lot has on you."

 "Harkness isn't Welsh." Edmund replies, faintly amused.

 "he's not American either, according to his records.  he's been living in Cardiff long enough that he might as well be." Pearl says, making a shooing motion.

 Edmund traverses the corridors to Rollins' office, knocking on the door. "Come in." Comes the bark from behind the door.

 Edmund opens it and pokes his head around it. "You wanted to see me, sir?" He inquires. "Pearly just said as soon as I got back from lunch."

 Rollins checks the clock above the door. "Well, at least you're not a dawdler.  Come on in and sit down.  Don't hover.  You always seem to be ready to leave or go on the road."

 Edmund sits in the overly padded chair in front of Rollins' desk. "Developed in case of bad news from superiors." He quirks  slight smile. "But truthfully, given some of the emergencies and hot spots I find myself in, a useful skill to have."

 "It's a little disconcerting.  Try to tamp it down a little in company and the presence of your superiors." Rollins says.

 "As you wish, sir." Edmund demurs. "I may not be that successful."

 "Considering your ability to fade into the background, I'm sure you'll be able to master the skill." Rollins says, pulling a piece of paper out of the slightly teetering stack in his in-tray. "Now, I'm sure you're curious as to why I called you in."

 "My curiosity only goes as far as is necessary, sir." Edmund says.

 "Your definition of curiosity is well known to be making sure you know everything so you never have to be curious, Pevensie." Rollins remarks without looking up from the paper. "As for your definition of necessary, we try to never find out what that is.  Anyway, the reason I called you in.  We've had a message that Dobrev is on a flight to England to investigate something here.  Under his museum assistant cover, so he'll be checking into the Ashmolean and British Museum to start, aside from any other people he needs to speak to." He flicks a glance up at Edmund's face. "I'm quite sure this is no surprise to you, but if occasionally you could be bother to be surprised at this kind of thing, it would belay our notions that you aren't a law unto yourself, Pevensie."

 "I continually attempt to be, sir." Edmund says.

 "anyway, as I'm sure you'll be stuck to him like glue anyway, I'm lumbering you with the job of making sure he doesn't cause too much of a spectacle or fuss while he's here." Rollins continues.

 Edmund winces. "Sir, you've read my reports.  Attempting to make sure Dobrev doesn't cause a spectacle of chaos wherever he goes when he's in the mood for it is like trying to stop a forest fire with a thimble."

 "Are you actually admitting to an inability to keep a situation under control, Pevensie?  I didn't think it was possible, give your record." Rollins asks.

 "It occasionally happens, sir." Edmund admits. "Dobrev is more like a force of nature than a human being."

 "And yet you seem to be the only person who seems to get on with him consistently.  I have faith in your ability to at least temper it, Pevensie." Rollins says.

 Edmund winces. "I'll try.

 Rollins leans back. "I really am enjoying noting that you have further expressions than faint amusement or polite concern, Pevensie. Perhaps given enough practice, you could branch out into shock or anger."

 Edmund re-assumes one of his faintly amused expressions. "I somehow doubt that will ever happen, sir."

 "Oh, and one other thing before you go." Rollins says.

 "Sir?" Edmund asks.

 "Rumour is that you're in a relationship with Dobrev, besides being as thick as thieves." Rollins says.

 "That's true, sir.  Been going on for some time now." Edmund replies.

 Rollins pinches the skin between his eyebrows. "I really wish you wouldn't come out and admit these things as though it were... oh, I don't know.  Of no more consequence than going to the cinema."

 Edmund shrugs. "You were aware I was gay before I joined this department, sir.  Besides, advance knowledge helps to reduce blackmail.  Was there anything you wished to comment on besides confirmation?"

 "Just... don't gallivant." Rollins sighs.

 Edmund raises an eyebrow as he gets up. "Sir, when have you ever heard of me gallivanting?"

 "Go, Pevensie." Rollins says, gesturing with the paper in his hand.

 ----

Dobrev's visit is... interesting.  Or rather, not quite how Edmund expected it to go at the beginning. Aside from getting snogged to within an inch of his life with promises for more as soon as possible the moment they find themselves alone after Edmund picked him up at the port.  That he was expecting. "And here I thought you'd get twitchy at having to leave your part of Europe." Edmund says as they settle into their compartment.  He's fairly sure Stefan's presence will stop anyone else getting in unless they're incredibly desperate.  Being able to induce unease without even opening your mouth is rather useful when you don't want eavesdroppers.

 "I've lived quite well in other places." Stefan grins.

 "The question is whether they survived you." Edmund says.

 "I make no promises." Stefan says, nudging Edmund's ankle.

 Once they're into the countryside proper, on the way to London, Edmund's nearly dozed off, Stefan's been so quiet.  "England is incredibly manicured." Stefan says.  He's looking out of the window with narrowed eyes.

 "Large population, constantly populated with little revolution that affected distribution of ownership aside from an agricultural one over the years." Edmund says. "What did you expect?" He pauses. "Personally, I tend to think France looks more manicured than England.  All those giant fields and specifically planted avenues of trees along the roads.  The lack of hedgerows are a little disconcerting."

 "True.  But just as artificial.  the lack of wild in this country is disconcerting."

 Edmund folds his arms. "I can always arrange for you to be shipped up to the Lake District or Bodmin if you're that desperate."

 Stefan smirks. "Oh, don't worry, I'm sure I can find something to amuse myself in London."

 Edmund eyes him. "And you wonder why I worry about you."

\----

 Once they reach London and have stowed Stefan's bags in Edmund's flat - not counting  one shag up against the door, which involved both of them grabbing at each other the second the door was closed behind them and thoroughly exploring each others' tonsils before frantic unbuckling of belts - Edmund's surprised at the speed he gets hauled out to the British Museum.  they'd been told to let him in to further his cover, but Edmund tends to forget that Stefan knows a *lot* about ancient Thracian and Macedonian history.  And someone to know that much, they normally have to be quite passionate about it (or just be alarmingly thorough, as some of Edmund's colleagues have said with significant looks at Edmund).

 Edmund's towed around the Ancient Greek available to the public section first.  During which Stefan's combined monologue, rant and sneer at  the bias and misinterpretation and mislabelling gets a rather starry-eyed crowd of history students gathering behind them.  The museum staff forcibly extricate Stefan from his fascinated followers once they catch up with him, to show him what Edmund tends to think of as the 'pottery shards in draws' section. he's been round here and is on quite good terms with several of the staff who work here cataloguing, to help with his cover.  A few tried to persuade him into coming to the lectures and enrolling in a history degree, since the speed Edmund managed to absorb enough information to sound like he knew what he was talking about was really impressive.  The only problem Edmund has is that he can't quite take archaeology and myths and legends too seriously, having seen first hand how it can be misinterpreted.  Stefan, on the other hand, is having far too much fun pointing out how things are mislabelled due to improper context being attributed to them back here. 

 Dinner is spent with the head of department here due to word getting out, and Edmund continues to watch in bemused fascination as Stefan comprehensively browbeats and argues with a man who by all appearances is a good thirty or forty years his senior over reasonable fish and overcooked vegetables.

 The assistant, a Dr Tom Francis - quite probably wrangler, if his weary expression is anything to go by - spears a slightly yellow carrot and smiles at Edmund. "Academic discussion can be rather interesting to watch.  I take it you've never seen it in full flow before?"

 "Benign arguments on occasion, yes, some of my colleagues are rather academically minded or part-time academics, but I’ve never seen Stefan do it before." Edmund says, most of his attention still fixed on the arguing pair.  He'd thought Stefan believed arguing like this was beneath him.  He and Edmund have frequent disagreements, during which Stefan tends to still be amused and sly through, and then even more turned on.

 "Oh?" Francis asks. "I thought you worked with him."

 "Yes, but not in the same capacity." Edmund says. "His colleagues back in Europe tend to be in agreement with him on several subjects, especially context, which appears to be one of their main sticking points."

 "Ah, I see.  And now he finds someone to do battle with who's entrenched in his ideas and unchallenged too." Francis observes.

 "I didn't think Stefan ever bothered to argue with anyone, as a matter of fact." Edmund replies.

 "Well, you learn something about the people you're friends with every day if you're lucky." Francis says optimistically. "Though when my boss goes this shade of red I tend to start tuning out, I confess."

 Edmund uses a spoonful of mash to soak up some sauce. "Tomorrow we're speaking to some people he'd been in contact with at the Ashmolean."

 Francis raises his glass. "In that case, I wish you luck in getting him back to his hotel."

 Edmund shoots Stefan a look. "He's staying with me for this trip."

 "In that case, my sympathies.  you may have to endure quite a diatribe on your way home." Francis grins.  Admittedly it's definitely sympathetic.

 -----

 On Stefan's second day in London, they travel out of the city to the Ashmolean in Oxford, and terrorise the archivists there.  Edmund consoles himself with the fact that Stefan is very definitely creating a rock-solid trail for this identity, at least in the scarred and bamboozled psyches of museum researchers and cataloguers; he doesn't want to know what would happen if he was let loose on the museums and exhibits of Greece and Rome.  Britain only traded for and filched several of the artefacts of Thrace and Thracian influence and descent, which for some reason Stefan approves of greatly as a way of obtaining priceless ancient artefacts.  Greece and Rome appropriated them and tried to adopt them as their own, twisting the meaning.  Although apparently it's created a back door into the cultures to mess with them. Edmund keeps telling himself that Stefan's logic is far too like that of someone he previously knew, so trying to understand the twists and turns of his brain is not for mere mortals.  Even those mortals with far more experience than they should have, including Jack Harkness.  Who for his apparent age, going by the records, really is very easy to figure out once you know that sort of mind and his background.

 When they get back in the evening, Stefan taps his lip, looking thoughtful.  Edmund eyes him. "I don't want to know, do I?"

 "That all depends on how complicit you feel in showing people a good time." Stefan says, still looking thoughtful.  To say that over half of Edmund's alarm bells are ringing is putting it mildly.

 "I'm wary of your use of the word complicit, that''s all." Edmund says.

 Stefan comes over, taking Edmund's slightly skew-wiff tie, undoing it, adjusting it and tying it again, smoothing it down.  "Oh, the sense you usually use it." He says cheerfully. "Prior knowledge with possible helping or at least not stopping events taking their course once set in motion."

 "The problem is that your concept of 'set in motion' can be unbelievably subtle and start before we even set foot in a place." Edmund points out. "Even stepping out of the front door can mean 'set in motion' as far as you're concerned, and I believe a jury might have a problem with that."

 "Perhaps, but I'm never interested in juries.  and you do have prior knowledge before we set foot outside the door, don't you?" Stefan grins. "I think the people of the West End really do need to be shown just how interesting a night can get."

 Edmund sighs. "Do I want to know what you're going to do?"  He's seen Stefan play crowds before.  Somehow, he can judge the mood of it, and turn it on a sixpence with a whispered word here, a jostle there, a broken glass here or a spare couple of coins in the right hand.  And a crowd that starts to turn is even easier to manipulate and spread, according to Stefan.  Edmund's seen riots, stampedes and giant parties start just because Stefan found the right match to light.  Because he looked at them and declared their lives grey and boring and in need of release, if only for one night.  Given that he's sure Stefan is older than he looks, he really does not want to think how many of the rampages across Europe's towns over the past decade or so were his fault.  All Stefan cares about is the crowd forgetting who they are and being consumed, deeming any who get hurt the sacrifice you have to pay.  He wonders how many of the files that label Stefan Dobrev as dangerous when bored are even aware of his talent for spreading chaos.  Because trying to prove that it all started with one person is bloody impossible unless you've seen them do it.

 "Where would the fun in that be?" Stefan says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 Edmund tilts his head back, watching the swirls of smoke overhead from everyone's fags, the pub noisy and laughing.  Fortunately for London, Stefan decided on a party mood.  Everyone's laughing and cheering, music spilling out of doorways and couples kissing on the street, people dancing and traffic snarled up across the West End, the horns and yells of cabbies merging into just another sort of music.  It's like New Year's, only a little more outside.

 Stefan, drink in hand, saunters over to where Edmund's propped up against the bar, smug and laughing, and for a moment Edmund can't help thinking of another young man sauntering towards him with the same expression, crowned in vines and ivy as the forest around them revelled in being alive and unfettered by civilisation, intent on causing havoc.  He tells himself off firmly.  he's not spoiling it for himself, he simply has a thing for a certain type, no matter how infuriating and smug they are.  Stefan crowds him against the bar, gesturing with his drink hand and poking him in the chest with his free hand. "You, Edmund, are being far too quiet and introspective.  Which is just not on at a party.  Don't tell me you're brooding."

 Edmund grins, taking a swig of his wine. "What if I was to tell you I was plotting?"

 "Plotting I fully approve of." Stefan declares, kissing him noisily before really pressing close. "it's intriguing.  and very, very interesting."

 One of the men next to them, who Edmund vaguely recognises as a regular in this pub, he's been in here before, groans.  he's very clearly not infected by the mood everyone else is in, frothy and half-drunk and gleeful. "Knock it off, you two.  or at least take it somewhere private.  Where the police won't see."

 "Do you see the police anywhere?" Stefan retorts.

 "I think I saw one on Wardour Street." Edmund says. "He was doing the foxtrot."

 Stefan chuckles, hooking one hand in Edmund's loosened tie. "he clearly had the right idea.  Stop being introspective."

\----

 The next morning, Edmund wakes up with Stefan sprawled over his chest.  He supposes he's lucky, there's probably a lot of people in a similar position, but waking up with strangers.   He stares up at the ceiling for a bit, before his bladder makes itself known.  Edmund pushes Stefan to one side, sliding out from under him and makes his way to the loo.

 He splashes a bit of water on his face after washing his hands, and looks up into the mirror to see Stefan, sleep rumpled but looking as fresh as a daisy, the bastard, appear behind him.  Stefan traces a line up Edmund's back, pausing to press against what are clearly bruises, if the soreness is anything to go by.  Then he catches sight of his neck.  The love bites dip over his shoulder and right up his jugular.  Edmund groans. "Did you have to do that?"

 Stefan traces a finger up them lazily, looking very smug. "It was necessary."

 "At the time, maybe." Edmund huffs. "But you never really like to think ahead when you're in the moment, do you?"

 "I'm always thinking ahead." Stefan says, nipping his earlobe before drifting back to the bedroom.

 Later that morning, it's HQ for the both of them.  Stefan to meet one of his contacts, Edmund to report on the Dobrev situation. "Have you any idea what was going on last night?" Rollins asks. "Reports are flooding in of something decidedly odd going on.  One man said it was as though half of London decided it was going to celebrate, and went on from there."

 Edmund shrugs. "We were caught up in it.  There wasn't really much to say about it aside from feeling extremely good."

 "Hmm." Rollins says, then tuts. "I see you enjoyed yourself.  have you thought of a scarf?"

 Edmund merely raises an eyebrow. "I considered it, but thought it might be more eye catching than the original bruises.  As you're aware, I'm not fond of drawing attention to myself."

 "True.  See if you can borrow some make-up from one of the girls to hide it." Rollins says.

 Edmund shakes his head. "In my experience, putting powder on if you're not wearing any other make-up tends to highlight it, sir."

 Rollins blinks. "It really shouldn't surprise me that you've researched this sort of thing.  Might I ask why?"

 "Observation of attempts to hide bruising." Edmund replies. "Powder's matte effect is something that would catch the eye and be remembered subconsciously as 'something odd' as it's not current fashion amongst men of my class and age to regularly wear make-up."

 "Not the fashion? Shouldn't think it ever would be outside the quarters of the world you're familiar with." Rollins harrumphs.  For all that he's a spy, he can be stupendously close-minded.  Still, it's the prevailing culture.  Edmund really does sometimes wish the rest of the Secret Service could get infected with at least some of Harkness' attitudes.  Just some of them.  The 'your sort' gets a little wearying on occasion.  There's a head in another department who seems to believe that the fact that someone who cheats at cards reveals them to be the worst kind of degenerate and thus raises more of a flag against their name than actual criminal or other suspicious activity.

 "The court during the 17th, 18th and early 19th century is but one example, sir." Edmund says, deciding to go for the 'annoy with extraneous information in the name of being a smart arse'.  Sometimes his best weapon.   "When they comment about the trend of wearing beauty spots on the face to hide pox and syphilis marks in history at school.  And it was common to wear kohl across all classes in Ancient Egyptian society."

 "Is there any type of knowledge you consider useless, Pevensie?" Rollins says, looking a little exasperated now.

 "None that I’ve come across, sir.  Think Sherlock Holmes." Edmund replies, keeping the smirk off his face.

\----

 Edmund skids under the ledge, feet first, Stefan on his heels.  The growl and bang of their pursuer deprived of his prey as he slams the rock overhang that's saved them from near-certain evisceration echoes through the bit of cave they're sheltering in.

 Stefan gets up cautiously, dusting himself off and checking for injuries and tears in clothing as he does, before checking Edmund for similar.  "That was... exhilarating." He says ruefully, picking up the lamp they've brought in.  It's one of the various gadgets that occasionally end up on earth, a small glowing ball that doesn't require electricity or any sort of fuel to keep going, just an hour of sunlight to keep going for a week.  There's some sort of battery in it, too small to feel.  Jack calls this kind of thing 'solar-powered'.  It's a very neat, very useful device, and small enough to fit in your pocket.  Stefan holds it up to check Edmund for any injuries, turning his face this way and that. "Just a few bruises."

 "Bloody insane, you mean." Edmund says.

 They'd come to Yugoslavia to track down some odd goings on and rumours of disappearances that were unexplained even for the KGB - people going into basements and tunnels in the city and not coming out.  Important people, or at least useful ones.  Hence the KGB getting involved due to being supremely irritated, even if it wasn't technically their jurisdiction, and the job getting passed to Stefan, due to Dobrev having the reputation of being able to get out of anything.  One of them was a double agent, so of course Edmund got involved since his superiors dislike the notion of useful people going missing just as much.

 Going over old records had revealed that there were a system of caves right under the city, and the basements and tunnels were probably connecting to them.  Further poking of the old records had revealed a string of disappearances in the region over the centuries, only it'd sky-rocketed due to the war with people seeking shelter, the population going up, a housing shortage due to bombing raids, and several businesses and governments deciding that they needed to expand their records storage.  Edmund really wishes people would listen to old fairy tales and childrens' rhymes more often.  They're cautionary for a reason.  Mention fairies anywhere near Harkness and he starts downing the strongest alcohol he can find.  They discovered that one when Lucy had been idly reciting 'my mother said I never should' whilst chucking a knife in the air from hand to hand.  Susan said it was rather impressive.  Apparently Jack had had some very nasty run-ins with them.

 So that had led to Edmund and Stefan venturing down into the basements near the point where the most had gone missing.  as expected, it was cold and dripping but oddly quiet.

 "I'm not seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary." Edmund says quietly. "You?"

 Stefan shakes his head. "It looks like a tunnel to me." he frowns. "However, it's a little too quiet.  Shouldn't there at least be rats?"

 Edmund nods. "True. Maybe whatever's down here has scared them off."

 "Entirely possible." Stefan says.  They venture further in, and the tunnels are starting to be less dingy and wet and made from concrete, the moss starting to creep in, as the walls become the grit of the caves, crumbly limestone and strange streaks from other rocks, the sides not so vertical.  They've passed the file cabinets and are into the more... deserted sections.

 Edmund pulls out one of the Torchwood devices they use for detecting energy levels.  It's quite good at measuring pressure dips and the kind of thing you get just before magic is about to happen.  It can't actually detect magical power, but it's quite good at the after and before effects.  Of course, most of the things people in this world think are magic are explained by suitably advanced physics.  half of what Torchwood manages to do with what apparently is just parsed electricity is frankly stunning, never mind how Jack manages to do things with that wrist device.  the men at Bletchley took an entire room of machines to process data that a device the size of your palm can do in seconds.  Still, while he may not understand how it does it, he can certainly use the devices and read what they tell him. "No abnormalities in levels of energy or signs of anything else."

 Stefan frowns. "I can't detect any magic, either." Stefan of course just uses his sense for magic, attuned to it like Edmund is the wrong cough out of place in a  crowd, or Susan is to the flick of an eyebrow on someone trying to manipulate or hide something from her. 

 he pulls out a device the Eastern European offices use to check resonances and build up a picture of buildings and geology, flicking it on and then making a swoop across it, splaying his hand out in front of him to span what he wants it to check and then pressing his fingers on the screen.  the ways to activate these things are certainly many and varied.  After thirty seconds, it chirps to indicate it's finished, and Stefan traces his way through the moving picture, looking for abnormalities and differences in density.  Handy if you're looking for metal structures, or swamps in comparison the rest of the landscape.

 Stefan shakes his head after tracing through what it's built up and any highlighted spots. "There's definitely at least a few pools in here, deeper in, but otherwise solid rock as far as the walls and floor are concerned.  No crystal, no quicksand, Even the rock itself is of consistent type.  which rules out any portals like the Rift, or illusion walls.  I'm not even detecting anything that looks like machinery, which I'd have thought it would at least have a chance of." He pauses. "There is what looks like a few piles of bones in some of the smaller cavities in the rock, so it looks like our disappeared didn't simply vanish into thin air, they died down here.  Whether they were killed or simply starved is another matter."

 "You have no idea how much I find that reassuring." Edmund comments.

 Stefan chuckles. "I aim to please."

 They keep walking.  The route they're taking isn't getting much deeper.  It's cool, but not cold enough to start longing for a coat.  Stefan notes open passages and routes through in case of getting lost, as well as closed off chambers and dead ends.

 What had been a fairly dank smell of rock and moss changes abruptly, and Edmund holds his hand up.  It's rank, not entirely dissimilar to the smell of a farm yard, and utterly unmistakable.  So far it's faint, but still strong enough that it means that the source isn't too far off. "Do you smell that?" Edmund asks cautiously.

 Stefan nods. "There's markings in the dust, too.  Footprints.  Big, heavy footprints.  Bare ones.  Far larger than any man, and they're regularly travelling on their toes."  Or rather, not quite toes and combine that and the smell... "It looks like we've got a minotaur on our hands."

 "In that case, let's just hope we don't run into it. Keep your ears open, we'll hear it long before we see it, especially with these echoes." Edmund says.

 "The question is what we expect to do after confirmation." Stefan says.

 "Run like hell unless you think you can change its mind with your talent for chaos." Edmund says.  Minotaurs are fine when they're domesticated and on their best behaviour.  This one, he doubts it.  Add that they're on what it almost certainly considers its territory and all bets go out the window.

 "A sensible answer, and for once I agree.  I'd like to ascertain whether it's alive or dead, though." Stefan says.

 "I'd have thought 'run like buggery' would be enough." Edmund states, wishing he had a pike on him.  Or a boar spear. "And it's alive, or the smell wouldn't be so fresh."  He pauses. "This solves the lack of creatures, I suppose. All running scared."

 "And the humans killed and dragged off, probably to be eaten." Stefan adds. "The question is what we need to say for the reports."

 "Giant beast killing and eating people.  Stay out unless you have harpoon guns." Edmund replies. "Red thread and a sword are only advised if you're an expert and had a past as a last chance gladiator." He pauses. "It would be preferable if the beast had been blinded and had a limb hacked off, too."

 "What would your public educated superiors say about a level playing field and giving the beast a fair chance?" Stefan asks innocently. "It's really not cricket, Pevensie."

 "Anyone who's ever met a minotaur will know that 'fair chance' means 'old, sick, half-starved and delirious, *and* with a boar spear through its guts'." Edmund retorts. He holds his hand up at a sound, both of them listening intently, but it sounds like just rock, and there's no sound of heavy breathing or walking to follow it up, so they breathe again and keep walking. "I would like to advise sir that he can follow the rules of cricket or marquis of Queensbury, whichever he prefers, and I'll follow mine and we'll see who comes out alive at the end of it."

 "By the prints, I'd say more than one." Stefan says, examining the floor as the cave passes a small pool, brackish and yellow.  You'd normally expect a pool like this to smell, even with fresh water dripping down into it, but the smell of minotaur is currently overwhelming everything else. "Minotaurs are long-lived, but they don't normally pass a hundred.  So it's probably a family to account for the centuries of reported and rumoured disappearances, unless they've been spelled.  You'd need a damned good binding spell, they're not that loyal and loving of caves.  If it's that old it's probably cunning, and minotaurs aren't known for being stupid as a race."

 "It's little details like that that make me feel so much better." Edmund murmurs.

 "I try." Stefan grins. 

 It's not  too soon after that the first snort of breath makes them pause, amplified by the caves.  Either they've let a very large bull down here or there's a minotaur around the corner.   One extra turn and Stefan swings round, pointing at the shadows.

 "There." He says quietly.  the lamp they've got with them is making shadows, and that one looks very much like a set of horns.   the horns move, the head getting larger, and then another snort and a minotaur looms out of the darkness.  Edmund and Stefan stay still, hoping it's not going to do anything and just wander off.  A minute ticks by, and there's another snort,.  More considering, just like a bull who's eyeing you up in a field and wondering if you'll be fun to play with. Then it shifts and scuffs its feet, and starts to run.  Charging.  As one, Edmund and Stefan pocket their devices and run, Stefan guiding them, following a trail that he'd mentally kept track of as they ventured further into the caverns.  Fit they may be, but the minotaur is bigger and faster and knows the terrain, which they definitely don't.  Edmund's convinced one of them will trip and go flying, now matter how sure-footed the both of them are.  Suddenly Stefan points at an opening, branching off to another set of caves. "There!  In there!"

 "What?  Are you crazy?" Edmund asks.

 "It's gaining on us, and in there is a small cave,  It opens up, it's just that there's a sheet of rock over most of the mouth, and importantly, the opening is too small for the minotaur to get through!" Stefan yells, veering off.

 Edmund glances behind them.  The minotaur is really gaining, enough that Edmund can see the glint of its eyes.  It's not the whites but it's close enough for him.  He's seen how much damage a minotaur can do with its bare hands when it's pissed off.  Limbs torn asunder are the least of it.  And if this one has a taste of killing and eating any intruders, it might not stop to check they're dead before it goes for their livers.  So Edmund swerves at the last minute, hoping that its inability to change direction once it's picked up momentum gives them time enough to get to the cave Stefan insists is there.  The ground in the branching off caves is more uneven, with more stalagmites rising up from the ground, and it's not longer a matter of running, more of scrambling over and around them.  Huffing behind them when they're in a ways in indicates the minotaur is gaining, running at an even pace that indicates it knows the easiest route through the stalagmites.  Of course it does, it roams these caves constantly and knows every inch.  Stefan points at what looks like a horribly small opening, set low.

 "You're kidding." Edmund groans.

 "We'll fit, he won't." Stefan replies.

 Inside the cave, Edmund groans. "Minotaurs.  Why’d it have to be minotaurs?"  The minotaur snorts and starts pacing, presumably secure in the fact that it's got a knowledge of the caves that they don't, and almost certainly knows all the exits.  And has the patience to wait them out.

 Stefan catches at his hand and gives it a squeeze. "It could be worse, it could be centaurs."

 Edmund glares at him in the light cast by the lamp. "Death by over-cautious superstitious soliloquy is not how I want to go, I get enough of it in dept meetings."  Really.  He's sat through so many speeches, waiting for them to get to the point and mixing their metaphors.  the problem is that if you tried to interrupt them they'd get huffy and keep the soldiers at home when you politely asked for reinforcements.  There really is too little appreciation for simple sentences like 'the stars say don't use the bridge on October the third, we think it might break.'  Even Julius Caesar's ides of march prophecy was short and to the point.

 Stefan chuckles. "I see you’ve met the same type of centaurs I have.  It’s like they purposely ignore advances in astronomy."

 Edmund thinks it over.  He really does have a point. Reading the stars was one thing when you think the stars are twinkly things stuck to the sky.  It's quite another when the planets are proven to be, well, planets and the stars are giant very far away suns that are only in those patterns because we're so far away from them.  Shifting to the right or left a bit could change what they look like.  Not to mention that we revolve around the sun, not the other way around.  it really should have killed off astrology.  because it's a bit like saying that messages can be got from a bunch of trees at different distances. 

 He grins, and says "If centaurs said they were reading tea leaves people wouldn't look at them as wise sages.  Do their mystique right in."

 "it would be infinitely quicker, though." Stefan muses. "Hand them a cup of tea rather than wait for the stars to be in alignment."

 "Well, there's more variations in a cup of tea." Edmund says. "You can predict comets. I can see them marking off the calendar. 'Haley's is due to return, brush up the really portentous sayings rather than having to keep an eye on all the gossip and economic problems like normal people do!' "

 Stefan laughs. "And 'Pick a random constellation, it's not as though the plebs have any idea what they're seeing as it is.' " He picks a bit of grit off his trousers. "Not a bad job, now I come to think of it."

 Edmund wavers his hand from side to side. "The problem was we never actually paid them for advice, the ones I knew, anyway.  they tended to send messengers to get people to come and hear their great advice."

 "True.  So you'd have to have a side job to keep you in money, since it's a little difficult to live out in the glens and fields these days.  People frown on it." Stefan sighs. "Pity.  It's perfectly liveable, you just have to adjust your expectations."

 "Hot water, toilet paper..." Edmund lists. "I live in a country where it rains half the time and if you stay outside in winter you freeze to death, and gale season is known as autumn.  There was a reason we moved into caves and discovered fire.  and then started building wooden and brick houses because it was warmer."

 Stefan sniffs. "Spoilsport."

 "I live to deflate your more hare-brained ideas." Edmund says.  The minotaur paces a bit more, then bellows. "Either he's trying to lure us out, trying to make us die of fright or call some others."

 "We have water, it'll be a while yet for the first two." Stefan says. "Maybe he never got people who found a place to hide that he couldn't get into."  He cranes his head, lifting the lamp. "We really ought to check the back of this cave, or the roof.  See if there's a way out."

 Edmund pulls his gun out, examining it. "Guns wouldn't really work on minotaurs, would they?"

 "Unlikely." Stefan says. "Maybe a shotgun.  Or a cannonball.  I'm not too sure about a machine gun, either.  The hide's a bit thick.  What did you last see killing one?"

 "An awful lot of axes.  Messy, that one." Edmund says. "And the one before that was a portcullis."

 "...Did they throw it at them?" Stefan asks, impressed.

 "They were holding it open and eventually the weight got too much." Edmund says. "Then it got finished off with rather a lot of spears."

 "Sensible on behalf of the spear people, the spears would've broken if they tried when it wasn't half dead from being speared by a portcullis." Stefan says. There's more growling outside, the pacing becoming ... quicker? "I think it's getting impatient.  It's probably too used to the unsuspecting being thrown to it."

 "That reminds me." Edmund says. "I thought the labyrinth was in Crete.  What’s a minotaur doing here?"

 Stefan shrugs. "Same thing any minotaur in any building would be doing, rather than out in the daylight.  You find them wherever someone needs a guard, or a nightmare in waiting."

 "Nightmare in waiting?" Edmund asks.

 "A giant beast who knows all the twists and turns of the labyrinth like the back of its hand, coming to get you and it's inevitable, and makes the sound of an animal that in normal life you've always been taught to fear due to being able to kill you if it gets up a bit of speed.  Or crush and stomp you to death if you get under the hooves.  never mind that it's domesticated." Stefan pokes him. "I can't see why that might be the stuff of nightmares for most humans."

 


	6. Peter

Jack leans against the railing above the medical bay watching Lucy sort through her medical gear to find something she left in there yesterday.  Susan's looking at her watch pointedly. "Lucy, all you need today is your purse, your bag and a knife.  What could you possibly need from in here?"

 "Anti-virus capsules." Lucy says promptly.

 "What on earth *for*, are you planning to set up a clinic in there?" Susan asks.

 "I'm not the one who's been spending most of his time in a far-flung country with water borne diseases and mosquitoes." Lucy says.

 "You have a point." Susan concedes. "At least he's reasonable about taking his medicine."

 "Especially if I tell him to."  Lucy says. "He's really rather lucky I've never been tempted to just slip him something disgusting."

 "Sometimes I really do wonder if you got all the disgusting little boy tendencies like frogs that Peter skipped." Susan sighs. "Now come on, we want to be on time."

 "I can't believe you managed to wangle an entire day off, the both of you." Jack says once Lucy's found the anti-virus capsules and they're going out the door onto the docks, having followed them up to reception.  "So where are you going to be?"

 "At the end of a radio line." Susan says, waving her communicator before putting it in her bag.  “We’re going to meet our brother, who can actually be trusted in polite society, unlike some people."

 "...We are talking about Peter." Lucy chimes in, sounding doubtful.

 "Peter has manners." Susan says, then adds regretfully "Occasionally. At least he's never inappropriate, unlike some people standing not a million miles away."

 Lucy straightens her hat. "Jack and I are only inappropriate when the situation demands it."

 "That's right." Jack says, doing his faithful sidekick routine.  Aside from the fact that he's only ever been a sidekick a few times in his life. "It's quite surprising how often the situation does demand it, though."

 Lucy nods solemnly. "Carefully judged every time."

 Susan smiles.  Sweetly.  Jack decides discretion is the better part of honour - sorry, survival - and backs up a step, looking at the clock over the reception. "Is that the time?  I'll leave you to get on with it."

 "coward." Lucy hisses over her shoulder as Susan takes her elbow and steers her into the hustle and bustle of the docks starting up of a morning.

 ----

Jack finishes what he’s doing, checks the Pevensie location, and finds out it’s in a tea shop two streets away.  Curiosity may kill the cat, but he’ll get back up again.  The tea shop is nice, neat and bustling. He spots the Pevensie girls in a corner, excitedly talking to a young blond man who screams active soldier from his posture.  And that can’t look away presence the Pevensies have when they choose to.  it really is a bit disturbing, the way they can turn it off and on and then start doing it when they're not even thinking about it.  Especially if they're in public.  Jack's just waiting for the day Susan forgets about it in a clothing store, walks out and suddenly she's got a retinue.  He's seen her forget about it when they walked into a very expensive shop once, to the point that every assistant who'd normally  pounce on someone who was well-bred (and thus probably moneyed) couldn't look away but was also so intimidated that they didn't dare approach.  It makes him think that Edmund's fade into the background state is something he's actively concentrating on, which makes him an even better actor and spy than Jack thinks he is.

 A waitress comes over as he's hovering in the door. "Table for one, sir?"

 "No, thanks.  Just looking for a friend." Jack says.

 Susan and Lucy spot him while he's standing there. Admittedly, it's not as though he ever hides and he is fairly easy to spot in any crowd.  Susan raises an eyebrow and Lucy grins, so he takes it as an invitation to wend his way through the crowd to their table.

 Susan sighs as he arrives, taking a piece of tart. "What is it this time?"

 The young man turns.  Good-looking, fresh-faced and genial, the kind of face most mothers would classify as safe to leave their daughters with, but blink and it’s a hardened leader of men with way too much experience.  Jack files away that this man could get practically anyone to follow him, if you add his Pevensie magnetism.  Very, very dangerous, like all the Pevensies.  The question is in what fashion.

 “Oh, nothing." Jack says cheerily. "just passing by and thought I’d drop in for a spot of tea.  maybe even a cake if I was in for long enough.  And then I saw you over here and thought I’d introduce myself.  Peter, I assume?  You didn’t tell me your brother was so handsome.”

 Peter smiles, wide and bright and engaging.  Even better.  And there’s the Pevensie resemblance.  Susan and Edmund are clearly brother and sister in looks, Lucy slightly resembles Susan, and Edmund and Lucy have the same expressions when they're assessing you or about to drop you in it, but they've all got the same smile.  Well, the cheery, engaging one is the same.  Not the calculating one or the other versions.  Just the bright happy one. 

 “Group Captain Harkness, I take it.  Captain Peter Pevensie.” Peter says, standing up and putting out his hand in greeting.  The perfect soldier posture continues, as does the very nice view.  Very decently fit, but with that edge of 'will move at any moment' tension that Edmund and Susan have all the time.  Lucy has it too, but not as much, presumably because she's not in the field nearly so much.

 “Call me Jack.” Jack smiles, shaking his hand.  Calloused as you'd expect for a soldier in this day and age, mostly rifle with some pistol, but he's got the calluses of someone who handles hand-to-hand weapons a lot, even more than Edmund.  He can feel Peter assessing him right back.  It's an interesting feeling.  

At which point Susan says sharply “Don’t you dare, Peter.”

 “Don’t dare do what?” Peter asks, halting mid-shake but not moving his hand.  He's still smiling, and the smile is edging into interested if Jack's not mistaken.  And Jack Harkness is *never* mistaken about that kind of thing, thank you.

 “You know perfectly well, Peter." Susan says, in a slightly irritated but mostly long-suffering tone, and continues.   "Any of it, up to and including inviting him for a friendly spar.” Pause. “Which is not acceptable behaviour in this day and age.”

 “It is in boxing and fencing clubs.” Lucy says, looking amused.  Specifically the type of amused which means she knows something you don't.  Every agent in the Hub knows to brace for the impending explosion when they see that expression.

 "All of which have barred him." Susan replies. "And then the others in the area pre-emptively do it.  So kindly behave."

 Peter looks thoughtful, and quite possibly eager. “We could spar back at -”

 “No.” Susan cuts him off. “None of it, Peter.”

 “Damn.” Peter sighs.

 Jack raises an eyebrow.  It's a very interesting exchange to watch, like a tennis match where the questions and answers are batted back and forth.  Clearly a long-running debate of long-standing, going by Susan's automatic answers and Peter's half-hearted pleas where he clearly knows he's not going to get anywhere, asking more for the sake of it even though he knows exactly what the answers will be, like a child asking for the long-forbidden sweets.  Maybe this time they'll relent, if he just asks enough times. And now he really, really wants to know the history behind it and what happened.  And what on earth he's done that gets him barred time and again from sporting clubs, simple word being enough to spread the disbarring.  because it has to be really impressive for that.  Plus, Peter was showing interest in him, and going by Susan and Lucy's reactions, Peter is the type that regards inviting another man out for a practice fight as a way to flirt.  And Jack hasn't seen one of those since fencing was popular enough that every gentleman worth their salt knew how to fence. A sword fight is, of course,  a brilliant way to flirt - all that banter, the adrenaline rush, getting sweaty and up close - there's a reason Hollywood has Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone and Douglas Fairbanks Junior and Senior fighting.  even with their weird codes they're getting hot under the collar during those things, especially going by the way they're grinning.  the problem he has is that Peter is a Pevensie.  And what Jack knows of Pevensies is that they fight hard, fast and incredibly brutal, doing whatever it takes to get their opponent down and out for the count, preferably permanently disabled if not dead, as soon as possible.  Which really does not tally with the kind of man who regards fighting as a good way to flirt. Peter may be obviously good-looking and with something  interesting below the surface, so of course Jack's interested.  the fact that Peter flirted back? Very interested.  And then Susan forbade *Peter*.  Not Jack.  Usually Jack's the one being told off, and now he's observing it from the other side of the equation.  You couldn't pry him away with a crowbar now.

 “Do you always do what your sister tells you?” Jack asks, moving his thumb on Peter's skin slightly.  They haven't let go yet.

 “If I know what’s good for me.” Peter says ruefully, glancing at Susan.  Who’s currently showing him implacable expression number four.  he finally lets go of Jack's hand, pushing out a chair for Jack to sit while he sits back down himself. "Join us, go on.  I've heard about you since the girls and Edmund talk about the people they work with, and you sounded just mad enough to be intriguing."

 Susan frowns, picking up her tea. "Peter, this was supposed to be catching up time while you're on leave, Jack was very definitely told he wasn't invited."

 Lucy grins, cutting a piece off her sponge cake with her fork. "And you believed that he wouldn't at least try if he was in the area?  this is Jack we're talking about, Susan."

 "I attempt to have faith in the universe." Susan says. "It's just that I have to plan for all eventualities."  She tilts her head in Peter's direction, who's summoning the nearest waitress who looks like she's at a loose end.

 "I'm not an eventuality." He protests.

 "Yes you are, Peter." Lucy chimes in. "People used to plan for you specifically, just in case.  I saw the provisos written out.  It went something along the lines of 'If Peter's with them, batten down the hatches'."

 "You're exaggerating, Lucy." Susan says.  Though she doesn't sound that long-suffering, which means there's definitely an element of truth in it.

 "Don't listen to them, Jack." Peter says, then flashes a grin at the waitress, who glows for a second at the attention.

 "What can I get you?" She asks, taking out her pen and paper.

 "Another pot of tea and an extra cup." Peter says, gesturing at Jack. "Did you want any cake?"

 "Ginger if you've got it." Jack replies.  "Otherwise victoria sponge will be just fine." He flashes a grin at the waitress. "I'm sure it's all wonderful, sweetheart."

 "Oh, get on with you." She blushes slightly, and goes off to get their order.

 "It still stands, though, Peter." Susan says as Jack goes to put his coat on the nearest coat rack to their table.

 "What's with all this telling your brother off in public like a bad puppy?  I don't see you telling Edmund what to do.” Jack remarks when he gets back, pulling out his chair and sitting down.

 “Edmund can be trusted to behave himself in public.” Susan says simply.  Peter simply looks a bit sheepish, as though it's the truth and he's admitting it.

 “He’s a grown man and decorated officer.” Jack points out.

 “That never stopped him in the past, and it’s not going to stop him now." Susan says.  "There are, quite simply, situations in which we find Peter should be sat on quite heavily for everyone else’s good.”  the waitress turns up with Jack's ginger cake and a new pot of tea and an extra cup on a tray. Jack and Peter smile at her, while Susan is the one to say "Thank you."

 Jack mentally flicks through the reports on Pevensie, Peter. Very impressive soldier, utterly comfortable in the field from the first, took to it like a duck to water.  No problems with bed wetting, took all the training in stride with no complaints, seemingly knew exactly what to expect.  Didn't get on so well with the drill sergeant, but no-one does.  However, he simply tended to ignore him rather than fear him, viewing all the drills and crawling under barbed wire with your pack on and gun in hand as a necessary evil to get his body into shape for the field.  A classic remark from him when someone else was moaning was "Cheer up.  In the olden days you'd have to do this wearing armour.  I don't think the sarge is going to attempt to pour boiling tar on you from above or set fire to the trenches while you're in them."  Very, very clearly an enthusiastic student of military history, but not any specific battles.  More... techniques and formations and the day-to-day requirements, which is rather odd for such.  Clearly used to doing without the basics if his ability to exist without them and make his way across bad territory is anything to go by, especially since he seems to view most modern convenience as a nice luxury.  Didn't require any training in hand to hand, often using techniques and moves that had the trainers taking notes or wincing at.  One of the notes on his early assessments was 'knows how to kill already.'  Controlled violence a speciality, preference for blades and brute force over guns, superlative tactician, back-up plans within back-up plans, impossible to impress or shock.  Didn't tend to get on very well with superior officers because he has no truck with the chain of command or any orders that might get in the way of them winning or gaining an advantage over the enemy.  However, he tended to gain the devotion of the men very quickly due to his tendency towards speaking bald truths, listening to them and ignoring the sillier orders.  That and his presence.  You always knew when Pevensie walked into a room, since heads would turn.  Gets on well with the natives, able to assess their needs and requirements, especially those who live off the land, the farming and hunting societies. 

 Friendly, diffident, tendency to take charge of any situation without thinking about it, not easily led, level-headed and stubborn.  And here he is readily acquiescing to his sister’s insistence that he needs a firm hand and will wreak havoc at the first opportunity.  Clearly their standards are different to the army’s.  Jack had always thought them supremely confident in the others’ ability and predictability, given the way they sometimes don't even bother communicating in fight and planning situations, merely expecting the others to have taken care of it.  The fact that they do is nether here nor there.  Gibson's nearly had apoplexy at some of the stunts they've pulled, the only explanation he gets being 'perfectly safe, Edmund/ Susan/ Lucy was there and had my back.'.  Susan phoning up Lucy to recruit her, utterly trusting in the fact that she could take on a job that required her to patch  up gunshot wounds, treat poisons, do emergency surgery and take in stride alien anatomy without blinking, as well as serve as a field agent when required, even though Lucy had never handled a gun before by her own admittance.  By the reports, you'd expect Peter to be a chip off the old block, even taking into account, say, family foibles and squabbles, like Lucy's tendency towards liking to embarrass Susan as she's not trained to give absolutely nothing away in public as Edmund and Susan are. So there is an exception, wrapped up in the package of a blond, handsome, extremely competent soldier and officer.  What did he do and continues to do in the extremely murky history of the Pevensie family that there is no way to get hold of?

 Lucy, Susan and Peter start talking, getting back to catching up and stories of the field and amusing stories on both sides of their past.  Jack would say childhood, only a lot of the time in the stories they're clearly adults, or at least late teens.  Back and forth with strange names - presumably nicknames, but there's an awful lot of them.  Peter's tales of his times out in Malaya are countered and buttressed by reminisces of war from the girls.  Which is very strange.  Lucy was too young.  Susan's time has absolutely no gaps in it, she went straight into clerical, no factory work or time with the land girls that could even account for little trips abroad.  And  it's battles plural.  Lots of them.  Too many.  far too many for their age.

 "What about that time Broadoak was dragging his heels about going up the ladder so he could get over the wall and Treefell thought he needed a bit of encouragement, so put a small bucket of fire at the bottom of the ladder?" Lucy asks.

 "Treefell was very, very strange." Susan says. "Just remember that."

 "He was the one we found trying to see how well you could wash something by dangling it in the river at different tidal levels." Peter adds.

 "The fact that the item he was trying to do that with was Rowantwig's best dress did convince most of us that he'd been potentially starved of sunlight when young." Susan says.

 "Oh lord, you are so lucky you weren't there at the last family Sunday dinner in Finchley, Peter." Lucy says when Peter asks how their parents are. 

 The parents being a seemingly very normal, quite nice, law-abiding middle-class couple, according to research and surveillance on them.  MI6's and Torchwood's reports both mesh perfectly. Not even a hint of wrongdoing, who seem a tad bewildered by their competent, driven, able to take down any attacker in a very short time children.  (Someone once attempted to steal Helen Pevensie's handbag in North Finchley, as she was coming out of the grocer's.  The witness reports have no idea precisely what happened, as one minute he was attempting to run down the street and the next he was out cold on the floor.  The fact that it was Lucy with her leads Jack to suspect that what led to him collapsing was a small but very accurately thrown projectile.)  apparently their interactions with their children seem to be typified by Helen and Robert Pevensie being very hesitant and acting as though they're gingerly handling a grenade.

 "Why, what happened?" Peter asks, genuinely curious. "They didn't try and ask why you left normal nursing so abruptly again, did they?"

 "No, worse." Susan wrinkles her nose. "So much worse."

 "Oh?" Peter asks, very intrigued now.

 "I can't.  Lucy, you're going to have to tell, it was skin-crawlingly awful at the time." Susan says, looking pained.

  Lucy claps her hands together in glee. "Oh, it was wonderful.  So skin-crawlingly awful, you can't imagine.  I was in the middle of dishing out the broccoli, and Edmund had just got back from telling someone who'd got the wrong number that this was definitely *not* White's the Butcher's, when Father came over all hesitant in that way he does when he's desperately trying not to give bad news.  You know the expression." Peter nods, and Lucy turns to Jack to explain. "He looks like he's about to dip his hand in slime.  Anyway, he asked Edmund how work was going, Edmund said fine, and of course he can't talk about it much more than that and Father knows it. And then... then he asked if Edmund had managed to meet anyone.  'Given how, er, cautious he had to be, of course, it's just that your mother and I do worry about whether you'll be, er, happy.' painful beyond imagining.  I nearly dropped the broccoli in shock that he'd actually ask that."

 Peter winces. "He didn't."

 "Oh, he did.  We understand that he and mother are trying to just show they're being understanding, and Edmund is so very clearly Mother's favourite, but it was so incredibly awkward.  Edmund, of course, is still promising to kill you.  He believes all blame for this can be firmly planted at your doorstep." Susan says. "Of course, he's quite right."

 Jack raises an eyebrow.  "How?  And when did he tell them?" he pauses. "have your parents decided you need to settle down and somehow fixated on the least likely to give them biological grandchildren? Unless, of course, he accidentally comes across one of those devices that are a bit prevalent in this job."

 Peter blanches. "...Prevalent?"

 "Oh yes." Lucy says. "There's at least five cases of male pregnancy that we've managed to dig up so far, three of them to term."

  "Becomes quite common once the technology stabilises." Jack supplies. "None of you seem particularly inclined to settle down, I have to say."

 "Oh, Edmund and Lucy are very definitely the type." Susan says. "Edmund's in a relationship right now."

 "He is?" Peter says, surprised. "After him?"  'Him' being the man Edmund lost during the war, Jack presumes.  It's interesting that it was clearly intense enough that the other siblings are actually surprised that he'd go down that road again.  Humans normally manage at least a couple of quite intense relationships in their lifespan in Jack's experience.  And given that Edmund is only in his early twenties now (though Jack really does have his suspicions about this family), it's rather odd.

 "We'll tell you after we tell Jack the story of why Father's dreadfully awkward questions are your fault, Peter." Susan says, then adds "Dear."  Peter blanches slightly.  Oh, now that's interesting.  he's actually scared of his sister.  one day Jack will get to the bottom of this family's past.

 "Anyway." Lucy interjects. "We were all home from school, and Edmund was what, sixteen?  Peter had been eyeing the army for a while, and wasn't really thinking much about anything else.  He gets a little bit focussed at times, and that's been known to cause some dreadful trip-ups.  We were all having dinner, and Mother was asking if any of the boys who were hanging around Susan had caught her eye."

 "Which of course they hadn't, I like men, not boys." Susan says. "Which was when Peter said..."

 " 'Of course not, they're a little immature for Su.  They might've caught Edmund's, though.  Ed?  Anyone you currently fancy?  The gardener's assistant at school's your type, isn't he?' " Lucy says. "Cue absolute stunned silence from the parentals.  The fact that it's illegal, no-one talks about it in polite society, and the fact that Peter knows and doesn't think anything of talking about it... I think Father might have had a heart attack then and there."

 "from what I saw in the war, I don't think your dad would've had too much of a problem with it.  plenty of helping hands in a fox hole." Jack says. "Your mum though... So what did they say?"

 "Father stuttered 'er, boarding school?' and Peter said 'good lord, no. Edmund's always liked boys.  Well, the ones the same age as him'.  Edmund did nearly try and kill him with his glare, you know how private Edmund can be.  he doesn't mind anyone knowing he likes men, and is very open about it to people he knows well, but he really likes his privacy.  For it to be Peter to tell them, and not him?  Susan practically dragged Peter from the table and gave him an absolute bollocking about it upstairs when dinner was over."  And another cheerful taken as read comment that Susan is the one who dispenses law in the siblings' relationship, especially when it comes to Peter.

 Peter winces. "The bollocking was pretty thorough.  I did apologise to Ed after."

 "The fact that you did it really does tell me that you really need to connect your brain and mouth on occasion." Susan says calmly. "Anyway, to answer your  previous question, Edmund is in what appears to be a reasonably serious relationship with another spy."

 Peter chuckles. "He really doesn't pick the easy ones, does he?  Is he Edmund's type?"

 "Edmund has a type?" Jack asks. "I've seen some of his picks, they just tend to be 'good looking and not effeminate'."

 "Completely Edmund's type, from what he's said." Susan says. "Apparently he drives him insane at times and lives to piss people off."

 "Because that's not at all my little brother's type." Peter grins, then tu rns to Jack. "Technically he's quite happy with nice men, he says that's what he likes, but dangle a complete tosser in front of him and he can't look away.  We've all got types.  Susan, for instance, prefers people who'll do what they're told."

 "Kinky." Jack says, waggling his eyebrows. "But then, you did always strike me as toppy."

 "Not like that.  Sorry to burst your bubble." Susan says calmly. "Lucy likes to be friends first..."

  "Because what is the point if you can't roll out of bed and then go have fun with  them?" Lucy asks. "I don't get messy break-ups, I really don't.  And Peter likes people who don't know or care who he is."

 Jack raises an eyebrow. "What, Peter Pevensie, soldier in his Majesty's army, comes from North Finchley?"

 Susan waves a dismissive hand. "Difficult to explain.  He prefers them not to have heard of his reputation or let that influence their choice."  Clearly there's something behind that.  And Jack really wonders how he's ever going to find out. he's really beginning to suspect consciousness transferral or immortality at this rate, only neither really add up.

 They're in there for a good few hours, trading stories back and forth, and Jack, although gaining a lot of interesting stories, is probably more confused than ever about their origins.  The names and locations don't tally with anywhere he's ever visited.  They sound English, but aren't anywhere in England or any of its colonies here or in the future. Some are clearly non-human - water creatures and what sounded like centaurs.  There's absolutely no mention of technology even reaching the current era Jack's stuck in. It sounds like something close to Middle  England or medieval - the problem being that the technology level doesn't significantly move on in Western Europe for a good few hundred years in terms of day to day life, so bloody difficult to pinpoint.  and while they're talking of battles, none of them come up in databases that Jack's seen.  It's a little frustrating.  His interest is piqued by the various tales of Susan and Lucy pointedly twisting Peter's wrist or kicking him under the table to get him to shut up in front of people. The tales tend to get vague on the details for their audience, but often seem to involve some sort of negotiation or welcoming guests, which backs up the general Torchwood observation that Susan was a diplomat somewhere.  They just can't figure out where.

 By common consensus, the conversation and tea gradually winds to a halt at  about five, and the waitress brings their bill, everyone chipping in and then Susan and Lucy meaningfully putting some of Peter's money back in his hand. "You can use that for the tip, Peter."

 "Why am I the one to tip?" Peter asks bemusedly, counting out the coins.

 "Because you're the one she's been flirting with." Lucy says. "Honestly, do I have

to explain everything?"

 They've just put their coats on, having retrieved them from the coat rack, when  Jack's radio goes off. He pulls it out, whilst Lucy smiles at the startled waitress. "Official business, training manoeuvres.  You know.  Sorry for the disturbance, we're leaving."

 "Oh, official is it?  That's nice. Hope you have a nice evening." The waitress says, staying cheery but a little alarmed.

 Jack presses the button to reply as they walk out.  He lives and prays for the day when this civilisation gets up to mobile phones and wireless. "What've you got for me?"

 Myra's voice comes on. "You need to gather up the girls.  Davies will meet you at the station.  We've got an outbreak of Roman soldiers near the castle."

 "We're supposed to have the day off." Susan says pointedly.

 "Is that Susan?" Myra asks. "Sorry, a troop of Roman soldiers means all leave is cancelled."

 "I like Roman soldiers." Jack grins. "Can be very interesting boys."

 "Sadly for you, Harkness, it looks like these soldiers are all business.  Reports aren't saying anything about them starting a fight but they're looking tense, which is never a good sign." Myra says. "What weapons do you want Davies to bring?"

 Peter's looking interested. "If it's Romans, what you'd really need would be light cavalry and spears.  And longbows, if you have them."

 Susan sighs. "Sadly, it's a little difficult to get horses that are trained for battle in modern day Cardiff, Peter." she pauses. "But I believe we can manage longbows."  She pulls out her radio and flicks it on. "Myra, how many are they reporting?"

 "Many." Myra says.

 Susan sighs, and then looks at her brother. "I'll get on with regretting this later.  Myra, we'll need a few guns, daggers, arrows and longbows for myself and Lucy, swords, and a long broadsword and shield.  As well as a few throwing axes.  We're on our way to the castle now, get Davies to track our signal and meet us en route."

 Jack eyes her. "Sword and shield?  Who for?"

 "Peter." She grimaces. "Congratulations, you're getting that fight you wanted."

Peter grins. "I'm joining in?  I thought you made it very clear that I wasn't setting foot near your work."

 "That's because most of it requires subtlety." Susan says pointedly. "As for a fight... Peter, trying to stop you would take more effort than it's worth."

 "I'm sure Gibson's told you about recruiting without consulting him before." Jack says cheerily. "Impeccable as your taste has so far proven to be in Torchwood employees."

 "I'm not recruiting, I'm calling on available resources for the situation." Susan says as they hurry in the direction of the castle.

 "Your brother counts as a resource?" Jack asks. "Earlier you were telling me he couldn't be trusted in public without a babysitter."

 "He can't outside a battlefield.  But since we clearly need manpower and I'm quite certain Davies doesn't have much experience in going up against people who use swords, never mind some of the most effective army that ever lived - and I doubt you have all that much more - I'm calling in the heavy artillery." Susan says.

 "I'm not the heavy artillery, Su." Peter says mildly.  They're picking up speed, running now, people opening up a gap in front of them as they spot them coming and it's rather clear they're not about to stop.  Mind you, by the time they get near their destination they'll probably be having to fight their way through crowds trying to get away.

 "You are when it comes to this sort of thing and we're desperate." Susan replies. "Note the desperate remark. And we may possibly need your tactical advantage."

 "What, and I don't have tactical experience?" Jack asks, feeling a little dismissed. He'd feel hurt if he was built like people who didn't have a deservedly massive ego.

 "Peter has more.  And better for people wielding swords." Susan says.

 Davies draws up in the van as they round round the corner, which is a tad laden with weaponry in the back.  You can hear the clink. "Is that your other brother?  What's he doing here?" Davies asks, staring at Peter.

 "Providing back up." Susan says, climbing into the front.

 They take a corner at speed.  There's a very large clank from the back. Lucy grimaces. "This is not filling me with confidence that I'm not about to be speared when we go over a bump in the road."

 "You've been in carriages with more dangerous luggage, Lucy." Peter says, then turns to Davies. "Are the reports definitely sure they're Roman soldiers?"

  "Listen, mate." Davies says. "One thing that very bloody school child and adult in this continent can tell you is what a Roman soldier looks like.  They're a bit hard to mistake for anything else, we all get taught about them at school, so when we get the call that there's Roman soldiers appearing out of the woodwork near to what used to be a bloody great Roman fort, I tend to trust the report.  They're hardly going to be mistaken for Civil War cavaliers or knights, now are they?"

 "Good point." Peter demurs. "Is there a way to get an update on numbers and what sort of behaviour we'll be expecting?"

 Susan taps her radio. "Myra will tell us when there's anything."  She turns her head to look at Peter. "Any advice?"

 "Use the terrain against them, if it's definitely Romans.  High ground is always  better.  Try to stay out of their reach if you can, since their swords are the short stabbing type, made for close quarters.  They will try shield wall tactics and to get you into a corner. " Peter pauses, thinking, rubbing his fingers together. "Try to separate them out.  Susan and Lucy, find a decent spot and pick them off on the sides. Longbows will probably be our best defence in this case."

 "Noted." Susan says. "Aside from the fact that it's late afternoon in a city and everyone's just out of work, Peter, so it's going to be all close quarters.  The only open ground near there is the castle grounds, and though it might be nice getting them in there, if they're outside it, it might be a bit difficult."

 Peter shrugs. "You know what I mean."

 "So what are the rest of us going to do?" Jack asks.

 "See if rifle fire works on their armour." Peter says. "Though I'd doubt it."

 "What makes you the expert?" Jack asks. "We have some very big rifles."

 "Rifles don't have the force behind them that longbows do, in my experience." Peter says simply.

  When they turn into Queen street, the crowds are definitely heading their way. "Sensible." Peter says cheerfully.  "It'll reduce the chances of civilian casualties." 

 Jack sticks his head out of the window. "Sorry, officer, but what's going on?" He asks a copper who's trying to shoo people in the direction Torchwood came from. They're not sure which.  it mostly seems to be shooing for the sake of shooing and make sure they're calming down a bit, rather than scattering all over the place.

 "Roman bloody soldiers appeared out of a crack in the sky outside the castle walls." The policeman says, then notes the stripes on Jack's arm.  If nothing else, Jack's uniform imparts Torchwood with a bit of authority when they're trying to get information out of people. "Sir. ...Has the Air force been notified, then?"

 "Response team called in to assess the situation, Constable." Jack says. "Hopefully we'll be able to get it enough under control before the big guns have to be called in."

 "Hope you do, sir, but it looks like an awful bloody lot of Roman soldiers against five people.  They're not coming down the High Street yet, but give it time." The policeman says, glancing worriedly over his shoulder in the direction of the castle. "Reports from people coming from that direction says it looks like they're figuring out what's going on and bedding in. Spoiling for a fight, too.  Admittedly I'd be a bit bloody confused if my station was mostly knocked down to its foundations and then built on, so can't blame them."

 "Are you absolutely sure they're Romans?" Jack asks, letting a sceptical note in and looking as professional as he possibly can.

 "Not sure where you'd get the costumes and armour everyone's describing unless someone's had a chance to nip over to Hollywood.  There was a history teacher down there with some of his class, and he said they were definitely speaking Latin.  Soldiers' Latin, if you get what I mean."

 "Think I do.  Thank you for your help, officer." Jack says.

 Susan pokes her head out. "Could you tell us where the history teacher is now?"

 "Last seen getting his pupils home from what I know.  Should be easy enough, it was one of the local schools, I know that." He turns to bark at one old lady "Missus, I don't care if you wanted to go fetch something from the shops for your grandson at the last minute and you'll have to wait 'til tomorrow now, do the words 'possible invading force' not mean anything to you?  Blimey, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm wishing the Home Guard were around if only so I could have some back-up.  We've got lads down there keeping an eye on them and directing people away, but..."

 "Could we have his name?  We'd like to interview him afterwards on where precisely he saw them enter." Susan says.

 "Think it was a Mr. Dai Llewellyn, shouldn't be too difficult." The policeman says. "Anything else you need?"

 "No, that will be all, officer.  We'll be sure to hunt you down if we need any more information, you've been terribly helpful." Susan says, smiling sweetly.

 The officer colours slightly at that, then scratches his head, causing his helmet to tip sideways slightly. "Er, forgive me for asking, but what're you planning to use against them?"

 Susan smiles. "If all else fails, a very large net dropped by the Group Captain here's division." She says, gesturing at Jack.

 "Well, that's a relief.  I'll tell people the RAF is on the look out.  make sure it doesn't get caught on the walls now." The policeman grins. "Ta, miss."

 They get to the end of Queen Street, carefully edging through the crowds, Davies sticking his head out and shooing people. "Think you've got a date for tonight if you want one." Davies says after he's yelled at a bunch of men in suits to get out of the way of the van. "You've been told about turning on the charm in front of people you want information from."

 "Charm gets you so many places." Susan says.

 "Including into his knickers if you wanted." Peter says.

 "Thank you, Peter, I wasn't aware you'd turned into Lucy." Susan says.

 They get within sight of the castle, and Davies pulls over.  Torchwood piles out to get to the weaponry. "Problem is how we're going to get at them." Davies says, leaning on the door. "It's not like chasing monsters."

  "This would be much better if we could come at them from a defensive point."

 "Who knows, they might respond to diplomacy." Susan says.

 "I wasn't aware you'd retained any Latin from school, Su." Peter says.

 "More than you'd think in this line of work when you have to read ancient documentation on a regular basis to check on previous sightings.  Educated people didn't believe in writing in English when they could write in Latin for a very long time." Susan says, shifting things aside to get her longbow and quiver out. "But no, when it comes to spoken, we have some rather neat little devices." She rummages in the first aid box and pulls out a little capsule. "Lucy, if you could do the honours?"

 "Of course." Lucy says, taking it from her as Susan finally manages to extract her quiver and straps it on securely. "Peter, cock your head."  She pushes the tip into his ear, then squeezes the capsule to break it.

 "Lucy, what are you - that feels *awful*, I -" Peter grimaces.

 "Little something Jack traded for." Lucy says, smirking.  "Apparently they're all the rage where he comes from.  It's a little creature - Jack says it's best to think of it as a type of fish - that attaches to your hearing centres and translates any language into your native one and whatever you're speaking into theirs.  Very nifty and incredibly useful."

 "It does mean that you can understand birdsong, though, which is a bloody nuisance." Davies grumbles. "I used to like birdsong.  Quite pretty some of it was.  Now I just hear 'my tree!  My tree!  Bugger off, I'm at the water bowl!  See my plumage, just try saying you don't want any of this'."

 "Basically it's like being on the town on a Friday night." Jack grins.

 "Well, it'll come in handy when I’m back on duty." Peter says. "My accent's apparently thick enough to float a brick in as far as the Malay are concerned." Susan pulls out a sword belt and sheathed sword, presenting it hilt-first to Peter. Peter grins. "You have no idea how much I've missed this."

 "Aside from the fight I heard about in the Officer's club with Edmund." Susan says dryly. "You've been told about impressing people."

 "They goaded us into it, and we were fighting each other, in my defence." Peter says.  He pulls the sword out and turns his wrist, checking the balance. "Oh, very nice."

 "We keep weapons that are designed for fighting in our armoury." Jack says. Peter looks nearly beatific, like he's just had a part of him returned, relaxing in the way Susan did when she got her hands on the longbow she adopted, but even more so.  Peter lets the sword fall to his side, and it looks like a very dangerous piece of weaponry just hanging there.  He's aware that the Pevensies have an attachment to their ancient weaponry, but this is impressive.  maybe it's the fact that Peter's the one who went off to become a soldier, which would make... Lucy the nurse (or healer as she often refers to it as), Susan the diplomat, Edmund the spy and Peter the soldier.  It's more complicated than that, but they're the closest you could estimate by job title.

 Peter nods. "Good thing.  Anyone got a map?" he asks, putting the sword back in its sheath and buckling it on as Davies produces a map and spreads it over the wind-shield.

 "What're the chances he'll listen to me during any fighting?" Jack asks Susan as Peter goes over the map, looking for defensive points and the layout of the remains of the fort.  Which is mostly under the castle walls.  

 Susan snorts, watching Peter in planning mode with a fond smile. "Not unless you've got prior knowledge of attack modes of the Roman army or personal experience of fighting them.  In which case, share it now because it's not going to help us to spring it on us at the last minute.  Otherwise, he'll almost certainly start directing the field. It's just what Peter does."

 "Always?" Jack asks.

 "Almost always.  He's been known to forget there's a general in the field who isn't him." Susan says, still not taking her eyes off Peter, who's tracing lines and plans of attack across the map with his fingers.

 "Not a good idea in my experience." Jack frowns.

 "If it was anyone else, I'd agree wholeheartedly." Susan says. "But as it's Peter and a battlefield or skirmish, I'd err on the side of listening to him."

 Lucy, who's been keeping watch, says "Advance patrol heading this way."

 Peter nods. "Armed for bear?  Do they look aggressive?"

 "Are they're armed, look like they know what they're doing and they look like they're dangerous?" Davies asks. Lucy nods. "far as I'm concerned that's aggressive."

 "Doesn't quite count, sadly." Peter says, straightening up and shading his eyes.  The Roman patrol has stopped, eyeing them.  Partly because everyone else is trying to get out of the way and they're not moving.   "Hmm."

 "Is that a good hmm or a bad hmm?" Susan asks.  She's already strung her bow in preparation.

 "Well, they're certainly armed.  And early era at that."

 "Early era?" Jack asks. "Does that make a difference?"

 "Shorter swords." Peter translates. "Pity we don't have two of Susan, though.  I'd prefer it if you were up on a higher point to cover them."

 "Peter, the higher point around here involves me darting into one of the shops and firing out of a window." Susan says. "Mind you, I'm sure you can handle 'we come in peace'.  Or Jack can."

 "What if they stab me?" Jack asks.  Everyone looks at him. "...Okay, so I'll get back up again in a bit.  But I'll need a new shirt."

 "Sound idea." Peter says. "I hadn't thought of that - Jack, you come with me as welcoming party, Susan, Lucy, you're back-up."

 "And me?" Davies asks.

 "Covering fire from the van and shooing civilians away." Peter says.

 "And telling the coppers to keep their distance." Lucy adds. "Basically, you're the baggage." she states cheerfully. "I'll join you if there's any casualties that need seeing to."

 "Thanks for the reassurance." Davies says. "Just... keep the fighting away from the van, will you?"

 The girls draw back to the nearest defensive-ish position they can, which does indeed involve getting into the nearest shop and darting up the stairs, but needs must, and Peter and Jack move forward. "So how much experience do you have in this?" Jack asks.  It's a very odd image.  Peter looks like a normal young man in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, having shed his coat and jacket, just with a sword belted to his waist and carrying a shield on his back, yet his bearing makes it look like they're perfectly normal accessories.

 "Oh, plenty." Peter says. "It just seemed to happen to me."

 Somewhere down the high street,  a car backfires, and they turn, jogging down the street to investigate.  Susan's voice comes over the radio.  "Are we following them?"

 "Tell her warning shot." Peter says. "We want them hemmed in."

 "Your brother says warning shot." Jack relays.  There's a whir of sound, barely heard over the background noise, and an arrow hits the ground in front of the leader's feet.  There's a slight clatter as they stop due to armour and shields, looking around for the source of the arrow.  Then they fall into formation. "Can you see what's going on?"

 Davies' voice comes over the radio. "Police at the other end of the street advancing."

 "Oh, that's not good." Lucy says. "These aren't rugby fans after the match on Saturday, they're armed."

 "Maybe they didn't get the message and think they've escaped from the nearest am-dram society." Davies says. "Students."

 "I can't see the am-dram lot managing to get this amount of armour together." Lucy says. "we really need to head them off before there's rather a lot of dead coppers outside the castle.  On the bright side, they're hemmed in, which is what we wanted."

 The patrol clearly comes to a decision, as they start to advance in the direction of  he police, picking up speed. Peter lifts an arm in the air, and Susan and Lucy fire off warning shots, catching the outer flanks in the arm and shoulder respectively.  That gets their attention, and they turn to see Peter and Jack with swords out.  Peter's got his shield up, and Jack is more sword and gun.  Mostly gun.  Jack's voice comes over the radio. "Peter says get more of their attention."

 Susan nods and gets another two in the legs, and they fall with a clatter.  By the snarl and speed they pick up, it appears they're not too fond of their mates being picked off, even if it is by non-lethal means, and the two idiots who insist on just standing there like targets are clearly asking for it.

 Jack tenses. "You know I only have some experience with a sword, right?"

 "Don't worry, I have plenty." Peter says, hefting his. "Pity Edmund's not here but you can't have everything."

 The first couple reach them, Susan and Lucy picking more off from the edges, and that one got an arrow through his throat, which counts as lethal in Jack's book.  Jack brings up his sword in an attempt to parry his attacker, but it's a bit useless, just blunting his attack and enabling him to dodge.  However, the one that went for Peter ends up very dead.  There was a whirl of steel, a spatter of blood and then a dead Roman.  And then his mate's a Roman with half his arm missing.  Followed up by a shield smash that Jack dodges out of the way, deciding that firing at the oncomers is probably a better bet for his survival than trying to parry and dodge against someone who knows what they're doing.  He manages to get a few, but Roman soldiers are falling around him, shot down in the rain of arrows from above, and Jack's not sure how they're managing to fire at this rate, given that there's only two of them.  On the ground it's not much better.  he's seen Edmund with a sword, and would put him up with some of the best sword fighters he'd seen across the galaxies.  Admittedly he's not normally fighting side-by-side with them.  Peter, on the other hand, is just frightening.  As far as the Romans who keep coming are concerned, Peter is a wall of death, hacking and slashing through them, delivering the occasional kick for variation.

 Eventually there's a voice over the radio, and Jack and Peter are standing in a street full of dead and injured legionaries  Peter's covered in blood, and wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm.  Beyond them are a line of very shocked looking policemen.  "Jack?  any still moving?" Lucy's voice says from the radio.

 "Can't see any.  They might be faking it to get away from your brother." Jack says, running an eye over the bodies.

 "Well, they'll join a long and illustrious pedigree of soldiers who did that." Lucy says. "We're coming down.  Though has anyone thought how we're going to explain this to all those coppers?"

 "Very carefully." Susan says.

 "Do you think we could get away with hallucination?" Davies asks, still by the van keeping the civilians away.

 "Maybe filming?" Lucy suggests.

 "Roman soldiers appear out of nowhere and a modern day Robin Hood and a man with a sword slaughter them in the middle of the high street alongside an RAF captain." Susan says dryly. "I can see how that would be an entirely plausible plot for a film."

 "I've seen stranger." Jack says. "Remind me to tell you about Star Wars one of these days."

 -----

Clean-up involves rather a lot of fast talking, and an awful lot of threatening the officers with the Official Secrets Act.  "Why they couldn't have appeared at night..." Davies groans as they get on with piling the bodies into the van Myra brought.  The ones who survived and were patched up by Lucy, they've got to think of something.  for now it's the cells.

 Gibson is surveying the damage from the side of the road, watching Jack and Peter swing the next body in. Susan looks at him. "You're not in the least bit subtle, sir.  What were the responses you got from Peter's superiors?"

 "These things happen to cross your mind when one of your agents is starting to make a habit or requisitioning her family members without consultation." Gibson says.

 "Competent resources are there to be used." Susan replies. "So what did they say?  You're looking a little reticent."

 Gibson puts his hands in his pockets.  "It was an odd conversation.  The minute I mentioned his name, several of them asked if Torchwood wanted to take him off their hands.  However, they were overruled by one man who asked me to forgive their reaction, but Pevensie was not up for grabs to any agencies.  There are several in the upper echelons of the army that would like to see the back of Peter Pevensie, but wiser heads in the SAS prevailed.  they see him as a resource they'd like to keep hold of.  Apparently his guerilla skills and skill at close-quarters violence is a talent they find valuable."

 Susan nods. "Peter's certainly happier as a leader of men than he would be as an agent.  Information gathering and surveillance for long periods isn't quite his thing.  I wouldn't have recommended his recruitment as it was, beyond this type of situation."

 Gibson pauses again. "...Care to elaborate?"

 Susan puts her serene face on, the one she uses when talking down city councillors and Rogarthian envoys. "Not particularly, no."

 "Do I get to know where he learnt to use a sword like that?" Gibson asks.

 "The day I tell you how I got my experience with a longbow." Susan says.

  


	7. Reveal

Gibson gets off the phone, stares at it for a good long minute, then gets up and walks out of his office to the sofa area, where his underlings are doing their best to look like they've been gossiping, and not keeping an eye on his office.  They always do this when it's a call from Torchwood One.  He really does wish that he had a private line in, like Harkness does with his wristwatch of marvels that's able to send and receive telegrams.  But since it has to go through reception like all calls, they all know exactly who's calling.

 It's Myra who breaks first. "If you tell us what's causing that furrow I'll get you a cup of tea, sir."

 "You wouldn't hold tea to ransom, would you, Myra?" He asks.

 "The kettle's on the blink and Myra seems to be the only one who can sweet-talk it at the moment until she's got time to check the wiring." Lucy mutters. "So yes, she can.  And will."

 "Entirely unlike when you were holding that shortbread to ransom last month."  Powell says.

 "That was a finite resource.  That I won." Lucy responds.

 "You won it in a darts match, Lu." Susan says. "That Jack got you into by pretending he'd done something to his thumb when it was his turn.  So it was by rights community property."

 "Winners keepers." Lucy says airily. "Anyway, Gibson, what did London have to say?"

 Gibson sighs. "Your brother's coming down."

 "And?  Edmund coming down isn't normally Torchwood One news." Lucy says.

 "He's accompanying one of our eastern European compatriots." Gibson says, putting his hands into his pockets. "Dobrev.  As you know, Pevensie somehow got to be Dobrev's main contact.  I've seen the man's reports, but never met him in person, and nor has anyone in the current crop of Torchwood One.  Harkness, you've been here the longest..."

 "Not in person, sir." Harkness says. "Only had contact through reports and mail.  He's supposed to be mad as a hatter and absolutely thrives on chaos.  Has a knack for causing it, too."

 "Edmund says it's considerably more than a knack." Susan says.

 Gibson sighs. "Tell me."  he feels like this job is one long headache or unpleasant surprise.

 Susan takes a sip of her tea and says calmly "Telepathic, empathic, able to incite chaos - especially crowds - able to project unease by presence alone, and has a nose for power and magic."

 "Sounds like one of my old girlfriends." Jack says. "Does he throw things when he's cross?"

 "Wonderful." Gibson says. "Anything else I need to know?"

 "He and Edmund are shagging." Lucy says.

 "Is there something in the water?" Gibson winces.

 "Given that the spy trade specifically trades on those used to operating at the edges of society, I'm rather surprised you don't have more." Susan says pointedly.

 ----

 Edmund and Dobrev get off the train, and Edmund gets hugged by Susan and Lucy. "You're looking well." Lucy says. "And this is Dobrev, I take it.  is it Stefan or Dobrev?"

 Dobrev smiles slyly.  "Stefan tends to only be for those I know well."

 "Or take your shirt off around." Edmund says dryly.

 "And not all of those." Dobrev says, grinning at him. "Your sisters are definitely interesting.  I believe they have potential."

 "Given what Edmund's told us, I'm wondering if your definition of interesting isn't something we should be wary of." Susan says.

 "Oh, it's always an idea to be wary of me." Dobrev says. "That's part of what makes it fun."

 Susan takes Lucy aside as Edmund and Dobrev sort out their bags. "is it just me?" Susan asks, tilting her head in the two spies' direction.

 Lucy glances back. "Not just you.  The photos don't do him justice.  they could be twins.  The hairs on the back of my neck were even rising, just like they used to around him.  Edmund really wasn't kidding about the feeling you got around him.  I don't know whether I want to shag him or run screaming."

 "It could just be a general type.  Remember that merchant from the Lone Islands?" Susan asks.

 "Yes, but he wasn't nearly so obviously intelligent." Lucy says. "One of his girlfriends stabbed him for double-crossing her on a deal."

 As they're walking, Edmund catches up with them. "Do I want to know what you two were whispering about?"

 Susan glances at him. "What do you think?"

 Edmund tilts his head in acknowledgement. "True.  So, opinions?"

 "He appears to be a very dangerous man." Susan says. "You have deplorable taste in men, Edmund, you really do."

 When they get to the docks, Dobrev looks around with interest. "So what are the pubs like around here?"

 Edmund narrows his eyes. "Don't you dare.  I know that tone of voice."

 "I was merely inquiring about the decency of their beer." Dobrev says, doing a very bad impression of innocence. 

 "Try anything without telling me and we will be having words." Edmund states.

 Susan and Lucy exchange glances.  If they hadn't thought Edmund was in deep earlier, that just confirmed it.

 Downstairs, Dobrev doesn't look the slightest bit impressed with all the technology, but then it's not as though they're familiar with the Eastern European set up. Harkness is giving Dobrev a considering look after they've made introductions. "have I met you?"

 "Quite possibly." Dobrev says. "I get around."

 "And older than you look, too, I'm betting." Jack says.

 "I'm sure you couldn't possibly have any opinions on the subject." Dobrev says lazily.

 Gwyn and Myra look fascinated. "I do like seeing two people who get by on their charisma come face to face with each other." Gwyn says. "It's almost as good as one of those noir films.  First to blink."

 "Except I don't tend to feel like I'm watching a cat play with a mouse when Jack does it." Myra says. She thinks for a second. "It is a bit like when Edmund and Susan team up, though.  Watching people be bamboozled by the Pevensies is really impressive."

 ----

 Dobrev walks into one of the back rooms to find Harkness going over a large cork board covered in notes and pictures on the wall. He makes an amused sound. "This is a little obsessive."

 "It's a side project." Jack says.

 "Do they know it exists?" Dobrev asks, walking forward to trace a line from one picture to the next of the same person, only about a year younger in age, but somehow an awful lot younger in aspect.

 "Possibly." Jack concedes. "They know I'm trying to figure them out. I wouldn't put it beyond Lucy to come in here and add things just to see if it confused me further.  She likes dangling things that look like clues but just waste your time."

 The subject of the board is the Pevensie family.  Specifically, their origins.  The photos start in the 1920s and go through to the last few years. There's lines and notes and questions tacked up, with the occasional place and in one case, the picture of a castle. Dobrev traces his finger across that one. "I think this may be thought of as reaching a little."

 "You'd think." Jack says, rolling his shoulders. "That's turned out to be one of the more likely ones."

 "So what theories have you run through and dropped?" Dobrev asks. "Entertain me."

 "Oh, there's plenty." Jack says ruefully.  "I started with thinking they were like you and I.  Older than they look.  They're too wise.  Too old for their looks.  Far too much experience, especially when it comes to fighting."

 "And what got you to drop that one?" Dobrev asks. "It's a nice theory, but I can tell you they're not of any of the long-lived."

 Jack huffs. "Simple. There's nothing on them, no records of them or sightings before, like you find on people who don't age.  There's *always* sightings.  A relative who's the spitting image, or a nephew, or son.  especially in this day and age.  it used to be a lot easier, since you had to sit for a portraits, not just have someone catch you on camera.  There's nothing for these four.  There's no trace of family members who look 'just like them, isn't it fascinating how nature does that'.  Susan and Edmund take after their father, Peter's his mother's and Lucy's a fusion, but even Peter looks a little like Robert Pevensie.  DNA bears it out." He gestures at the school photos. "Even if that was the case, they wouldn't have grown, and that's very obviously documented."

 Dobrev smiles slightly. "You can thank the British school system and its obsession with producing yearly photos for that."

 "Yeah.  Sometime soon they're going to learn how to produce really impressive fakes, but for now you're stuck with replacing a head or using a double when you take the photo, and getting a plausible match for four people is more work than almost anyone could achieve.  The Nestene could do it, but the Nestene don't age.  or bleed.  Or hold up to scans as flesh and blood.  they'd have to produce millions of copies to pull off ageing gradually, not suddenly sprouting half an inch overnight."  Jack grins. "Besides, while the Nestene can plan, the plans are never long term.  So I looked about for something else. I discovered the linchpin fairly quickly.  The flashpoint is this house." He taps on a picture of a large house in the middle of the countryside. "They spent part of the war there when they were evacuated and school the rest of the time.  Something happened in that house.  Talk from the locals in Devon says they changed from normal children - they'd been seen by locals employed there - to what they are now in the first few weeks.  One day quite normal children, the next, what they are now.  Which made me automatically think ..." He gestures to Dobrev, inviting him to complete the sentence.

 "Possession." Dobrev says, grinning. "Not a bad guess.  However, possession is implausible since the entity possessing them wouldn't have their memories.  It would account for the personality change, but it wouldn't account for the fact that their memories of childhood and what happened in the weeks before are completely intact."

 "Precisely." Jack scrubs the back of his neck.  "It's almost like they got stuck in a time loop, only that wouldn't have made them appear older.  I've been in one, it doesn't give you life experience, it's just boring.  The same thing over and over."

 "You discounted being spirited away by the fairies." Dobrev says. "These isles are full of tales of people being away for one night and a hundred years pass."

 "Problem there is that there's no age discrepancy." Jack grins. "Any more suggestions?"

 Dobrev looks thoughtful, then asks. "Fell through a localised rift and de-aged when they came back?"

 "Doesn't work like that." Jack says firmly. "We should know, we live on top of one.  Seen plenty who've fallen into a dimension running on faster time than we have in this world and come back out again.  They've all aged - five, ten, thirty years in the space of a day, sometimes being spat out years before they left this world, like the Weeping Angels do.  The mind would be scrambled as it is." Jack sighs. "Not to mention all the de-ageing tech I’ve seen wipes the memories, since it's not able to cope."

 "Pity." Dobrev says. "It's a nice theory.  So what's the picture of the castle got to do with your most plausible one?"

 "A good portion of their skills are suited to medieval times.  Sword fighting, longbow, the fact that in all their stories they never, ever even mention any technology or advances beyond that period.  Not even cannon." Jack looks vaguely nostalgic. "When the human race finally figured out what to do with gunpowder, an awful lot changed.  Anyway.  Add in their other experience, the way they automatically lead, and the fact that when they forget themselves they act like rulers and nobility, I’m going with past lives and reincarnation.  Humanity puts an awful lot of stock in the concept, with a nagging consistency of gaining the majority of memories when they get a shock or built-in trigger.  It's the only thing I've found that really explains the sheer wealth of experience but lets them age and keep previous memories."

 "So you're going with medieval nobility." Dobrev says, sounding amused "It's a good guess.  I'm not sure where all their experience of non-human creatures comes in, though."

 "The tales are around for a reason." Jack grins.  "There were always sightings down the ages. It's quite possible they were more common and open about it back then - it's not like there aren't tapestries with the occasional unicorn in it."  he pokes a picture of a centaur, then folds his arms and fixes Dobrev with a look. "However, you know, don't you?"

 "I might." Dobrev says. "Edmund could have told me.  However, we're spies.  We don't share secrets unless it would benefit us."

 "Sure I could make it worth your while." Jack says, suggestive grin in place. "We've got plenty of things you might find interesting."

 "Nice try." Dobrev grins. "Sadly for you, I'm a little protective of Edmund."

 "Can't say I didn't try." Jack grins.

 ----

Edmund's sleeping peacefully when the voice intrudes on his sleep. "Wake up."

 Edmund shakes them off and falls back under.

 There's a shake, this time. "Wakey, wakey..."

 "No." Edmund mumbles.

 "Edmund, we do have to get up, comfortable as this bed is." The voice says.

 "S' right.  Very comfy bed.  leave me to sleep." Edmund mumbles.

 Stefan pokes him. "What part of 'time to get up' do you not understand?  We're supposed to be meeting the mermaid this morning, and she swims with the tides.  As I've heard you say, time and tide wait for no man."

 "All of it.  I'm choosing to ignore it.  they can do it without us." Edmund says, burrowing his head deeper into the cushion.  It really is a very comfortable bed.  impressively so, given that it's not an expensive hotel.  That's when he feels the blankets being tugged off him, and in his half-asleep state, just misses his grab for them. "Bastard."

 "Do you want me to leave you with no hot water?" Stefan asks. "I believe you're the one who extols its wondrous properties."

 Edmund looks at him blearily.  Stefan's sitting on the edge of the bed, blanket in his lap, chin on hand, looking very amused. "I just want to bloody sleep.  have the hot water.  See if I care."

 Stefan chuckles, reaching out to stroke his collarbone, saying in a fond fashion "You were always incredibly stubborn, Son of Adam."

 Edmund jerks awake at that, sitting bolt upright and staring at Stefan. "...What did you just call me?" He asks.  No-one ever calls him that. Not here.

 Stefan raises an eyebrow, cool as ever, hand still on Edmund's collarbone. "I wasn't aware it was an insult."

  "...You called me Son of Adam." Edmund says, a little shakily. "Only people from there ever called me that, and then only the ones who weren't - and the only one who -" He takes a deep breath.  It can't be.  but all the horrible, horrible details add up, slotting into place like they've always been doing in the back of his brain, only he didn't want to see. The place he met him and the fierce pride in it was possibly the only thing he didn't know before, and that was because he knew him there, not here.  Stefan even mentioned it, he dropped enough clues.   The only thing about him right now that's really different is the setting and the smell, but then it's not as though Stefan's constantly surrounded by it any more.  Edmund swallows, the point on his collarbone where Stefan's fingers are resting feeling incredibly sensitive right now. He swallows again, getting the name he kept banishing to the back of his mind out. "You - Bacchus?"

 Stefan smiles.  Half fondness, half devilry. "And here I thought you'd catch on sooner, my Edmund."  All Bacchus.

 Edmund glares at him, dislodging his hand, the dread being quickly replaced by something that feels like the annoyance he usually feels when Bacchus is playing games and half anger. "I spent this whole time telling myself I was just seeing things and unfairly comparing the two of you, and now you tell me it's some game you were-"

 Stefan - no, Bacchus - grins. "It was very entertaining." He says, tracing a line down Edmund's breastbone.

 Edmund bats it away, only Bacchus moves his hand back.  "Seriously, keeping me on a string - if nothing else, intelligence is not a *game*, Bacchus!"

 Bacchus raises an eyebrow. "And yet you all seem to call it that.  Intelligence is a very, very entertaining and rewarding game, and I've been planning interesting things.  I can see why you like it so much." Pause. "And then you turned up, which made it even more entertaining. My Edmund, always so good at working from the shadows."  He leans forward, putting his hands on either side of Edmund so Edmund's forced to lean back. "And having so much fun, weren't you?  We make quite a team."

 Edmund groans, lying back and staring at the ceiling.  Sadly, it's just blank paint and gives him absolutely no help. He tilts his head up to look at Bacchus. "Anyone else, I'd accuse you of playing with my feelings and walk out, but for you it's bloody typical behaviour.  Even the sodding minotaur hunting."

 Bacchus grins so widely it's like the sun, moving forward. "You know me so well. And here I feared your memory of me had dimmed over time."

 "Still not going to forgive you." Edmund scowls, running his hands over Bacchus' wrists on either side of him.

 "Now where would be the fun in that?" Bacchus asks.

 "Just so long as you don't start making the furniture sprout leaves again." Edmund says.

 "The problem there is that in this climate, the owners of the hotel would probably  sell it to the nearest allotment farmers for mulch." Bacchus says.  practically pouting.

 ----

The morning is actually quite nice, and everyone settles in on a bit of the decking that's by the water when it's high tide, quite close to the front entrance of the reception of Torchwood.

 Edmund looks out over the water. "I can't believe they can swim through this murk.  It must be like trying to swim through ink, the amount of pollution in the water round here."

 "Apparently they use masks to deal with it." Jack says, watching the boats go by. "She should be here soon enough."

 Sure enough, after about fifteen minutes of boat-watching, there's a ripple in the water and a shadow below them, and a dark head of hair emerges close to them, pulling off a mask, as Jack said.  It looks a little like a modified, much sleeker gas mask.  The face that goes with the dark hair is pale and greyish, with the sheen to it that you get on dolphins.  Still, take that away, give her a normal skin tone - oh, and different eyes, hers are black, again like a dolphin's, or a shark's - put her in a dress and you'd swear she was a welsh native.  well.  as long as you ignored the gills over her throat and the webbing on the hand she uses to push her hair out of her eyes.  and the sharp teeth. Apparently they occasionally breed with the locals, so mermaids off Britain are pale skinned, mermaids off Hawaii are dark skinned, and mermaids off Norway tend towards blond.

 "Hello, Jack.  Still waiting for your Lonely God, then.  I see you've brought your fellow rift guardians."  She hoists herself up onto the rope hanging down from the dock holding the fenders, now high enough that she can rest her arms on the dock.  Her tail's a good five feet long, not including the trailing fins.

 Jack smiles. "They insisted on tagging along.  Everyone, Angharedd.  How's your cousin?"

 "Dewi is very well and told me he wants that shark tooth back." Angharedd says.

 "No chance.  I won that fair and square." Jack says.

 "That's what I told him." Angharedd says. "If he will play dice with his things, he should be prepared to lose them."

 Davies comes down to the water, holding a tray of tea, handing the mugs out. "I can't believe you brought tea." Jack says.

 "It's common courtesy." Davies says, handing one to Angharedd, who takes it and sips from it where she's resting on the rope. "It's nettle, the closest I could get to seaweed."

 "Appreciated, thank you." Angharedd says, sipping it. "You land-dwellers fascination with drinks as part of negotiations and social occasions is always quite odd.  But appreciated."

 "We find it more relaxing." Susan says. "and it aids the voice when talking.  Do you need introducing to anyone who wasn't here last time?"

 Angharedd shakes her head slightly. "I've met all of you, aside from your brother.  Though I do wonder at his presence here." She says, looking pointedly at Dobrev. "The one who comes.  I see you you claim your consort, god of chaos."

 Edmund whips his head around, then winces. "Consort?  really?  I'm not -" Dobrev grins. "...I really hate you sometimes."

 "You always do." Dobrev says.

 Susan, normally so composed and unshockable, suddenly drops her tea, the mug falling from nerveless fingers, staring at Dobrev. The crockery cracks and smashes on the decking, tea going everywhere, and Jack stares at her, then looks in the direction she's looking, trying to see what she saw.  Because to shock Susan Pevensie, it has to be out of this world.  Except what she's looking at is Edmund and Dobrev. Who are currently respectively looking uncomfortable and smug. "What happened?"

 Susan takes a breath, picks up her mug and composes herself, saying in an extremely irritated tone. "I've just been informed that my brother's lover really is Bacchus.  Not bears a resemblance to.  Is.  pardon me for being a little startled."

 "Bacchus?  Isn't that the name of the Roman god of wine?" Jack asks, looking back at Dobrev, who just raises an eyebrow in response.  Still looking smug.  Lucy's staring, looking flabbergasted, though any second now she'll either start babbling or looking smug, depending. 

 "Yes.  Dionysus originally." She grits her teeth. "God of wine, wildness and chaos.  Edmund, how long have you been keeping this from us?"

 Edmund sighs. "This morning."

 "I hope you tried to throttle him." Susan says, glaring. "For all our sakes.  But honestly, Edmund, *Bacchus*?"

 "It appears I really do have a type." Edmund says, looking pained.

 Jack folds his arms and raises an eyebrow. "Okay, so for those of us not in the loop, Dobrev is a presumably immortal being who used to have fun roaming the Mediterranean a few thousand years ago creating havoc.  What I want to know is how you Pevensies know what he looks like to do the comparison, because absolutely none of your stories involve anything that even sounds remotely like the Mediterranean.  Did the Greeks use the same model for all their statues?"

 Susan rolls her eyes. "Of course not.  However, rest assured that my family knows exactly what Bacchus looks like, Edmund especially.  And no, I'm not going to give you an answer to satisfy your curiosity."

 "You Pevensies and your secrets, you're worse than a whole contingent of Mytraxians." Jack grumbles. He pauses, then grins as a thought occurs. "So if Dobrev is the god of wine, guessing Edmund's going to be pretty popular if they decide to chuck the spy trade in and start stocking bars."

 "That all depends on the punters' taste in wine." Susan says.

 Angharedd cocks her head at the family drama, sips her tea, and waits calmly for it to stop before addressing Dobrev again. "What do you want, One who Comes?  You usually haunt the shores of warmer waters to the east."

 Dobrev smirks. "The oncoming storm is approaching, the universe's herald of change.  The world's going to become a far more interesting place as regimes and certainties crumble in the years to come."

 Edmund eyes him. "We've just been through a world war, that wasn't enough for you?"

 "And you all hid back in your caves when it was over." Dobrev snorts. "What's coming is far more entertaining."

 "The question is who wants to tell Gibson that we've got a god out here as well as a mermaid." Davies says.


End file.
